


To Become Legends

by annecoulmanross



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Lovers, Ensemble Cast, Fix-It of Sorts, Gratuitous Greek Mythology, Hieros Gamos, James's Infamous High Kick, Literary References & Allusions, Long-Suffering Stewards' Club, M/M, Magical Realism, Marriage Proposal, Metafiction, Misuse of the Book of Common Prayer, Rituals, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25908349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annecoulmanross/pseuds/annecoulmanross
Summary: It’s the autumn of 1847, and the crew of the Franklin expedition is bracing for their third winter in the Arctic. But a strange superstition has begun making its way around the ships: that the solution to all their problems is a particular magic ritual called a “ships-marriage,” which would require the captain of Erebus and the captain of Terror to be joined in holy matrimony.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, John Bridgens/Harry Peglar, Lt Edward Little/Lt Henry T. D. Le Vesconte/Thomas Jopson
Comments: 151
Kudos: 94
Collections: The Terror Big Bang 2020





	1. Too Much to Ask

**Author's Note:**

> My everlasting gratitude to my two beta readers, my darling @[ariadneolorin](https://ariadneolorin.tumblr.com/), who gave me the beautiful and precious seed of an idea for this fic and directly contributed a number of excellent words to it, and the brilliant and indomitable @[kaserl](https://kaserl.tumblr.com), who faithfully encouraged me chapter-by-chapter as I wrote and tirelessly caught buckets of my mistakes; and to my incredible artist and dear friend James @[jamesclarkross](https://jamesclarkross.tumblr.com), whose lovely illustration you can find below, and without whose warm welcome, guidance, and kindness I may never have begun writing fic again at all! 
> 
> You can also find (and reblog) James's beautiful art [here!](https://jamesclarkross.tumblr.com/post/626978199010689024/tobecomelegends)
> 
> All history and source notes are at the very end of the fic, after the Epilogue!

**Chapter 1: Too Much to Ask**

_‘twas homeward bound out on the deep  
curled in my hammock, I fell asleep  
I dreamed a dream and I thought it true  
concerning Franklin and his gallant crew _

_in two fine ships and one hundred strong  
they sailed away amongst cheer and song  
to seek a passage through the Arctic snow  
that poor John Franklin would never know_

– traditional lyrics, sung to a naval tune from the 1850s

– – –

**Tom Blanky – September of 1847**

Being trapped in the pack ice did strange things to men’s minds, Tom Blanky always said. He’d seen it before when he’d served under William Parry, and again when he’d served under John Ross. Although the dark, angry thoughts that had crept into his mind at Fury Beach had never been present during his trips with Captain Parry, his imagination had still conjured up specters and queer dreams – superstitions that replaced one’s normal daily rhythms, which had halted and frozen with the ice. It was a pattern of Arctic life, Blanky thought, that men made meaning out of the strangeness, to comfort themselves.

At least, this was how he rationalized the actions of the crewmen he overheard discussing how they might melt the ice that had been packed so firmly around them since the previous September, through the unseasonably cold summer of ’47 that had seen the sudden death of their expedition leader, leaving behind two captains to struggle on in their respective ships, each trapped in the pack, separated from one another by a mile of ice that seemed to grow by the day. Blanky, being as experienced with the ice he was, knew that the ever-increasing distance between _Terror_ and _Erebus_ came merely from the pack drifting, pushing the vessels apart. And yet on days like this, when no amount of Blanky’s friendly ribbing and cajoling could convince Crozier to come to _Erebus_ for a command meeting – Crozier preferring to stay on _Terror_ and send Blanky and his officers in his stead – it seemed that the distance between the ships was as much the result of the brittle tension between the expedition’s new First and Second as anything else. 

So now Blanky found himself lingering just below-decks, taking store of the expedition’s flagship on Francis’s behalf. Or former flagship, Blanky mused, since the expedition’s First was so ensconced on _Terror_.

When Blanky first heard voices from the orlop below and tuned his ear to hear the talk onboard _Erebus_ , it was John Morfin who was speaking.

“I’ve heard that,” Morfin was saying, “that’s how Captain Gore – you know, our poor Lieutenant Gore (God rest his soul) – Captain Gore who were our Gore’s grandfather? – John Gore, that’s it. That's how John Gore got his two ships home from the Pacific, after what happened to Captain Cook and all.”

Someone scoffed. “And tell me, Mr. Morfin, how did poor old John Gore keep his ships safe by gettin’ hitched?” 

“Go on, John,” a softer voice said – that of Mr. Weekes, the carpenter. 

“The way I heard it,” Morfin continued, “after Captain Gore married his second – I think it were a Captain King, or a Captain Knight – well, after that, the winds smoothed out and sailed them right back to England.” 

“A likely story,” said the same skeptical voice from earlier. 

“It’s a ships-marriage.” This was Tom Hartnell, Blanky thought, the young man who’d taken an interest in the ice. “Common enough story on the ships I sailed with as a boy.” 

“Superstitious nonsense.” 

“That’s as may be,” Hartnell agreed. “I’ve heard it told that way, is all, never seen it work.”

“But how _does_ it work?” That voice Blanky knew very well: bright Henry Peglar of the foretop on _Terror_ , who had accompanied Blanky on the trip across the ice earlier that evening. 

Weekes broke in again, saying, “The marriage would link the two ships together – for safety, against dangerous conditions or adverse winds. It might even solve our problems with how this ice keeps pushing the ships apart.” 

“And how is it done?” Peglar asked. 

“Well, that’s just it, the captains are s’posed to be married – vows and all. And the marriage binds not just the captains, but the ships – keeps them safe and together,” Weekes said. 

The skeptical voice interrupted, “Only it’s just witchcraft, and it wouldn’t work anyway.” 

“It couldn’t hurt though, right?” Peglar mused, “And Captain Fitzjames would make a fine bride.” 

“Why would _he_ be the – oh, because he’s Crozier’s Second? But _Erebus_ is the flagship – surely that means that Captain Crozier would be–” 

“No, no, they were supposed to switch ships, if anything should happen to Sir John, so that Crozier would have _Erebus_ and Fitzjames would have _Terror_ ; it was part of the instructions from up top, but what I heard is, the captains decided it was silly and stayed on their own ships anyway, after Sir John, well, you know…”

“…got swallowed up by the ice like it were some gigantic beast?”

“So Captain Crozier would be the husband then–”

Blanky decided it was time to intervene. 

“What’s all this, then, lads?” he asked, swinging down the ladder and planting his feet on the deck of the orlop. 

The men who had gathered there all startled, and those whose backs had been to the ladder spun around. A few seemed about ready to scatter, but it was clearly too late to do so; Weekes and Morfin settled for shuffling their feet, while another man – a stoker from _Erebus_ , Blanky thought, though he didn’t know his name – looked away, and Tom Hartnell blushed red with shock. But Henry Peglar, blunt and eager as ever, replied, “We were just talking about ships-marriages, Mr. Blanky, sir.” 

Weekes stepped in. “It’s an old sailors’ superstition, sir, don’t you pay us no mind.” 

“I’m well familiar with what stories old sailors tell, don’t you worry, Mr. Weekes,” Blanky said cheerily. 

The other man, the skeptic whom Blanky thought might be a stoker, spoke up from beside Tom Hartnell. “But it’s just a story, is all. It ain’t true. No point to stories when they won’t do any good out here in the ice.” 

Blanky looked over and sized the man up – fair-haired and taller even than Hartnell, with a thin face. “I wouldn’t give up on stories just yet, Mr. –”

“Cowie,” the man said. 

“Well, Mr. Cowie, don’t discount a good story right now. We’ve not much else to do out here in the winter.” 

Cowie nodded, but he and Hartnell shared a look of doubt between them. 

“But perhaps keep the captains out of it, hm?” Blanky said, lightly. “Wouldn’t think they’d necessarily like to be talked about so, without knowin’ it.” 

That brought a blush even to Peglar’s cheeks. Blanky knew that he himself had a reputation for a light touch among the men, which some might think a failure on the ice master’s part, but was actually a careful strategy: if the men thought him overly kind, they’d tell him tales out of school, and even more than that – when something needed doing, even the gentlest rebuke from Blanky would tend to accomplish it, though firmer and angrier words from the commissioned officers might only push a rumor underground. 

– – –

**About a month later – October of 1847**

The problem was, this particular rumor was persistent. Blanky found, now, that whispers dried up when he appeared at mess, but if he was stealthy, he could catch words like “marriage” and “magic” hovering like ghosts about _Terror_. Assuming that something similar was happening over on _Erebus_ , Blanky guessed that the men’s superstitions had only grown. 

One evening, a few weeks later, Blanky found himself lingering yet again on _Erebus_ in the wake of a command meeting, as Captain Fitzjames often held back one of _Terror_ ’s officers to discuss a specific report. Today it was poor Lieutenant Irving’s turn, and Blanky didn’t envy the man another conversation with Fitzjames about the details of the few remaining stores. 

While he waited for the lieutenant to finish going over his calculations with the captain in the wardroom, Blanky lingered in the Great Cabin, glancing over the books that filled the shelves of the ship’s lending library. Where _Terror_ ’s library was often in slight disarray, these volumes had been placed carefully in alphabetical order by author. The shelves were free of dust and the leather spines gleamed, even those without the benefit of gilding. 

Blanky laid a finger over the spine of a copy of _The Arctic Expeditions_ by the poor late Sir John’s dear departed first wife Eleanor. He was just considering settling down to read when he heard a soft foot-step in the doorway. 

Mr. Bridgens knocked apologetically at the half-open door. “Sorry to disturb you, sir.” 

Blanky shook his head with a grin. “Nonsense, Mr. Bridgens. Not doing anythin’ ain’t worth the disruption.” 

Bridgens smiled back. “Considering a poem, sir?” 

“Not if there’s conversation on offer – only if you’re not needed elsewhere, o’ course.” 

“No, sir, I’d just thought to check over the library. See if it needed organizing.” 

“This your handiwork, then?” Blanky asked, gesturing at the clean, neat shelves. 

Bridgens nodded. “Yes, sir. Mr. Goodsir and Captain Fitzjames made a catalogue, but I’ve been ensuring that the men have reading material as well as the officers, and that the books find their right places afterwards.” 

“Important work, Mr. Bridgens.” 

“I’m happy to do so – I’d be keeping the shelves neat in any case, and the men need stories as much as anyone.”

Blanky cocked his head and looked at Bridgens a little more closely. “Any ‘stories’ makin’ their way around _Erebus_ these days?” 

Bridgens met his eyes quite clearly, his brows carefully even. “Anything specific you’re after, Mr. Blanky, sir?” 

“Only I know what ships’ crews can get up to in the dark Arctic nights. All sorts of odd notions.” 

Bridgens nodded. “There are a few things I’ve heard that wouldn’t be fit for Captain Fitzjames’s ears – or Captain Crozier’s, for that matter. The one tale that worries me is how the men whisper about the ships drifting apart, and what might be done about it.” 

“Aye.”

“You’ve heard then?”

Blanky nodded, still waiting for Mr. Bridgens to put it to words.

“Never thought to hear men encouraging a ships-marriage, these days,” Bridgens admitted.

“Aye,” Blanky agreed. “I’d hoped to have stamped it down, but no luck, eh, Mr. Bridgens?” 

Bridgens smiled, a bit sadly. “No, sir. I’ve heard it passed around by more than a few mouths. I wonder–” his voice dropped low, quiet and confessional, “I wonder whether it might not be better to tell Captain Fitzjames now? Before he overhears it, I mean.” 

Blanky considered this. “And what of Francis? The whispers may be quieter over on _Terror_ , but anything that gets to your captain would get to ours. And somehow I don’t think Francis ought to hear this from your Captain Fitzjames.” 

Bridgens grimaced, ever so slightly. “I’d thought to let Captain Fitzjames make that decision himself.” 

Taking a different track, Blanky asked, “What do you think of it – the idea of a ships-marriage, I mean?” 

“I’ve read plenty about it. It’s an idea with a long history.”

“Do tell, Mr. Bridgens.”

“It goes back to the Greeks, sir. ‘Twas called a _hieros gamos_ or a _hierogamia_ – a ‘sacred marriage,’ that is,” Bridgens seemed to roll the Greek words carefully but crisply in his mouth. “There’s an account in Homer, another in Herodotus.”

“And what do these accounts tell us, then?” Blanky wouldn’t say that he was self-conscious about his limited education, but he spared a moment’s grateful thought for James Clark Ross, who had helped him stumble through some of the classical texts that had intimidated Blanky as a young man, when he and Ross had sought ways to escape the mounting horror of their three winters in the ice with young Ross’s uncle. Herodotus might not be familiar to Blanky even now, but the old copy of Chapman’s Homer that James Ross had gifted to him had pride of place on Blanky’s small personal shelf.

“Well, it’s usually translated very loosely,” Bridgens said, “when the _Odyssey_ is translated into English; being that it’s only a small part of the story and not much to the tastes of readers. But when Odysseus bemoaned the fact that he could not make a ‘marriage like that of Achilles’ to save his crew from disaster, it was a ships-marriage he meant – other poets have written that it was the marriage between Achilles and Patroclus that allowed their men to fight so well at sea.”

Blanky nodded once again. “And in Herodotus?”

“Herodotus calls it a tradition of the Egyptians, a way of maintaining the balance of the Nile.”

“The balance of the Nile?”

“Balance – or order, if one prefers – was seen as the opposite of chaos. And the Egyptians were afraid of chaos. They wanted the yearly floods to be regular, predictable. It was said that the king’s marriage would ensure that order.”

“So it’s not limited to marriages between captains, is it, then, Mr. Bridgens?” There was a whole world here that Blanky didn’t know, as foreign to him as the ice must be to Bridgens.

Bridgens shook his head. “Not at all, sir. Some say that a sacred marriage is what allowed the army of Alexander the Great to sweep across Asia, all that way inland, so far away from the sea. When Alexander’s beloved – a general under his command – died, there his campaign ended, for the magic died away with the marriage.”

To Blanky’s eye, Bridgens looked terribly wistful for a moment.

“Or at least,” Bridgens said, seeming to catch himself. “That’s what Hadrian says.”

“Hadrian?”

“An emperor of Rome, sir. He had a political marriage already, a wife he had not much care for, so he couldn’t take up a sacred marriage with the boy he loved. When the boy died young, the emperor tried to bind them together anyway, using his own power to make the boy a god.”

Blanky tried to parse this stream of knowledge. “Was there a purpose to it?”

“Pardon, sir?”

“Need it be based on love, I mean? These myths of yours all sound like love-stories, marriages between men who loved and trusted each other.”

Bridgens smiled wryly, but there was something sad in his steady eyes. Blanky thought back to the whispers he’d heard, that Bridgens was one of those men who turned to the sea for the love of other men, rather than the other way around. A pang of sympathy ran through him, thinking fondly of his own dear Esther and the daughters they shared, waiting for him back home; a man like Bridgens could never have a home like that, Blanky knew.

More gently, Blanky continued, “All the sailors’ stories I’ve heard make it seem only a matter of necessity – two captains caught in dangerous seas, without a common leader to guide them any longer. More duty than love.”

“You refer to Captain John Gore, sir?”

Blanky nodded. Evidently at least one of the men he’d caught in the orlop hadn’t been entirely cowed. Blanky wondered who.

Bridgens added, subdued, “The stories that I heard as a young sailor did speak of necessity more than affection, Mr. Blanky, sir. It’s more… palatable, I think, for the men who talk about recent history, about the fathers and grandfathers of their own officers.”

Blanky considered this. “You’ve heard other versions, then? Reliable ones?”

Bridgens’s voice was very quiet now, in deference to the still-open door. “Some men might marry at sea, if they could not marry elsewhere, sir.”

“A useful thing then, that such marriages come with the ‘added benefit’ of safety at sea.”

“Yes, sir. As you say.” Bridgens seemed to have caught the twist of irony in Blanky’s voice, for he echoed it back. “A marriage might have little power over the seas,” Bridgens said, “but much power over the hearts and minds of men.”

Blanky marked Bridgens’s careful hypotheticals. “And perhaps a love might grow even within a marriage of necessity,” he added. “Or at least a certain stability and familiarity – a balance – much as in any marriage between man and woman, back on land.”

Bridgens’s eyes widened ever so slightly.

Before Blanky could add more, there was a soft knock on the doorjamb, and then Lieutenant Irving stepped into the Great Cabin.

“Finished here, Mr. Blanky?” Irving asked, looking ready to be away.

Blanky addressed him, “I’ll join you in a moment, lieutenant – go on ahead to the slops room. I’ll meet you there.”

Irving agreed with a nod of his head, and ducked out once more.

Blanky turned back to Bridgens. “Some o’ these stories may have more worth than I gave credit for. I think I ought to recruit a few allies, Mr. Bridgens. And then I’ll speak to Francis, I imagine. I won’t tell you to keep your captain in the dark, but I think if you can keep it from him for now, I’d advise you do so. Might have found a way to resolve this for the good of all, I think.”

Blanky caught Bridgens’s last nod and slight smile before he left the Great Cabin behind.


	2. Our Shadows Keep Watching Us

**Chapter 2: Our Shadows Keep Watching Us**

_without Sir Franklin, the men grew cold  
and round their ships the ice did fold  
out on the seas, where they searched in vain  
for a way to sail their ships again_

– – – 

**Edward Little – The next day, October of 1847**

Edward Little knew that when Mr. Blanky brought information about the men to the captain, it must be genuinely serious. Blanky, friend of the captain’s though he was, didn’t like the men to think that they had to keep quiet around him for fear of their words spreading to the captain’s ear. But Edward wasn’t prepared when Blanky came to him with a story. 

“A moment o’ your time, Lieutenant Little?” 

Edward nodded. He was only counting the coal supply for the fourth time, estimating whether he ought to recommend to the captain a further decrease in coal use for the boiler. He put down the ledger book in order to follow Blanky back up to a higher deck, perhaps to the Great Cabin, but the ice master only leaned against the wall behind him, seemingly content to continue their conversation in the coal-storage room. 

“Well, Mr. Blanky? What is it that you would like to discuss?” 

Blanky’s face was serious and stern. “I’ve heard some… perceptions from the men that we might be able to improve the situation with the ice.” 

Edward tilted his head. “‘Improve the situation’? How, exactly?”

“Now, I don’t think this’ll work, mind, but I want to warn that it’s a fair popular story among the crew now, it seems, and we may need to bring it to the captain.”

“What is it, Mr. Blanky? I can’t possibly help if I don’t know.”

“A ships-marriage.” 

Edward was stumped. “A ships-marriage? What do you mean?” 

“There’s an old sail-story that in two-ship voyages like this, when the expedition runs into trouble, it’s because there’s an imbalance that needs be corrected. And apparently one way is to ‘marry’ the ships, to join them – or rather, to join their captains together.” 

“You don’t mean…” Edward had a sinking feeling in his stomach. 

“Aye, they’d have to be wed.”

Edward blinked numbly at the ice master, hoping perhaps that he’d misheard. When it became clear that Blanky was waiting for some sort of response he laughed weakly. “Very funny Mr. Blanky. That’s a- that’s a clever joke.”

“It’s no joke, Lieutenant Little, the men are serious. And I reckon I am too.”

Edward rubbed his forehead, already feeling the headache coming on. “It would never happen. Captain Crozier would throw himself off the foretop. Or he’d throw Captain Fitzjames off the foretop.” 

Blanky nodded. “I know. The men know, too. That’s the problem – those two don’t talk, and when they do, it goes poorly.” 

“But you can’t imagine they’ll ever agree to do this.” 

Blanky shook his head. “I think it unlikely. But perhaps it’ll shake them up, make them realize that the men need a show o’ mutual support, some sign that their captains are workin’ together.”

“Perhaps.”

“And if naught else, mayhap the men will stop talking as if a ships-marriage will make the pack unfreeze and sail us right through to the Pacific.” 

Edward caught himself wishing that maybe a marriage would do just that, and clenched his jaw. 

“Alright – will you go to talk to him, then?” 

“He’ll take it better coming from you, Lieutenant.” 

Edward shook his head involuntarily. “I doubt that very much, Mr. Blanky.” 

“If it comes from you, it’ll have the weight of a formal petition from the men. And then I can lean my opinion on theirs. But if I tell him, you’ll have to back me up yourself.” 

Edward grimaced. “I suppose…”

– – –

“Why on _earth_ would I agree to this?” Francis thundered. 

Edward trembled, but he clasped his hands tightly behind him to steady himself. “Captain, sir, the men asked me to– to put the idea before you.” 

Blanky was far less tremulous. “Francis, it’s not about breaking up the pack or preserving the ships. But this might keep the men contented while we work out the next steps – if we’re going to keep from them how dire things really are, then we need to give them something in return. Something to show them that their captains are committed to them.” 

Francis frowned. “Why should I care if they doubt my commitment, Thomas?” 

“I know you know why, Francis.”

“But still… Fitzjames.” Francis looked like he’d just taken some poor AB’s daily ounce of lemon juice, his lips pursed against the name’s sour taste.

Blanky nodded. “Aye, I’m sure he’s not what you’d imagined in a wife, Francis, but he’s become a serviceable captain over on _Erebus_ – you’ve been avoiding him, I know, but you should see him with the men.”

Francis scowled. 

Blanky continued on, apparently undaunted. “You mightn’t like to hear it, Francis, but we won’t get out of here unless you two show a unified front.” 

“A unified front?” Francis scoffed. 

Edward suspected that his input wouldn’t be welcome, but he broke in anyway. “Captain Fitzjames isn’t so bad, sir.” 

Francis looked murderous. 

Edward knew he had misstepped, but soldiered forward anyway. “I mean, sir, I know he can seem–” words failed Edward here.

Fortunately, Blanky saved him. “He can seem a show-pony, Francis, but he’s not, and you two need to straighten yourselves out. This might help you, it might help the men, so what have you got to lose?” 

Francis snorted. 

“I mean it, Francis,” Blanky said, more firmly. “What have you got to lose? If we don’t make it out of here, you won’t be marrying Sophia anyway.” 

Francis looked wounded. “Thomas, please–”

“No, Francis, you need to hear this. If there’s any chance of us getting out of here when the summer returns, the men need to see that you’re doin’ all you can to seize that chance. They believe this will make a difference – a little show o’ faith in your men is all I’m suggestin’ – and if we prove them wrong, all the better: we’ll all go forward clear-eyed from there.” 

“Fine – I’m not agreeing, but tell me how you think this all works.” 

Blanky nodded at Edward. 

“Well, I was told–” Edward managed to get out, “or, as I understand it, the men have said that if two captains get– get engaged, rather, they believe it might stop the pack from pushing the ships apart as it’s been doing. They were speaking of Captain John Gore, sir, and how, in rough weather in the Pacific, he sent up a signal flag to–”

“Yes, thank you, Edward. I know that tale. Heard it from John Gore’s son, in fact. I sailed with him and young Graham, did you know that? God, Graham deserved better – he was so young.” Francis sounded exhausted. 

“Aye,” Blanky said, quietly. “And his father deserves to hear his last act of bravery – saving kindly Mr. Goodsir from that crevasse – Gore’s father ought to hear about that from _you_. Which means we need to get the rest of these boys home.” 

“How?” Francis asked, very much sounding like he didn’t expect an answer. 

Blanky answered anyway, “Well, this plan is as good a start as any, Francis.” 

Francis nodded slowly. More in weariness than agreement, perhaps. 

“You send a proposal over, in sum,” Blanky added, “and Fitzjames, if he’s smart, sees that for the olive branch it is, and accepts. You two organize some little ceremony, stage it like a Sunday service or a ship-side drama, and give the men roles to help in the plannin’ of it to keep them busy this winter.” 

“Ah yes, Sir John’s sermons and Fitzjames’s naughty theatricals, my two favorite things.” 

Edward cringed at the bitter sarcasm in the captain’s voice, but Blanky was ready as always with his own argument in return. 

“You’ve never scorned at stage-plays on the ice, Francis. I know you better than that. This needn’t be sordid, like whatever happens in the Med. A nice, rousing performance like how we used to put on with Parry. I know you fretted we’d make a second ’24 o’ this, and now that we thoroughly have, we’d best follow Parry’s example: keep the men happy, earn their trust in us, and get as many of them out of here as we can.”  
Francis sighed. “Alright.”

“Sir?” Edward asked. 

“Alright, I’ll do it,” Francis said, resigned. “I know we cannot afford to lose the goodwill of the men, or the faith of the officers on _Erebus_ – captain included, damn his eyes. He’ll say no, anyway – he has far more to lose.” 

Blanky smiled. “You’ll go over to _Erebus_ to make the proposal, then.” 

“I will _not_ , Thomas. If all this could be done with calling cards and signal flags back in the old days, it can be done by message now.”

“Francis–” Blanky began. 

“No, Thomas. I won’t look him in the face as he turns me down. I’ve had enough of that for one lifetime. Twice is enough, a third time would kill me.” 

Edward assumed that Francis had forgotten he was in the room. Edward himself certainly wanted to be anywhere else right now. 

“If you won’t do this yourself,” Blanky said, “then it should be done formally. You’ll need to send someone to speak to a representative of the bride– a representative of Fitzjames, rather.” 

“Then I’ll send the offer through one of his lieutenants.”

“He’s only got the one, now, Francis.” 

“It’ll have to be Le Vesconte, then. Probably best, anyway. Fitzjames will want to laugh at me about all this with that little pet poodle of his – this will just speed the process up.” 

“Francis,” Blanky said again, his tone warning. They glared at each other for a moment. Edward wondered if he could sneak out without being noticed. 

“Fine.” Francis said at last, and then turned toward Edward. “Edward, go to _Erebus_ and discuss the matter with Le Vesconte. I trust you and he can get this sorted out.” 

With this done, the captain put his head down on the table. 

Edward eagerly wished he could do the same. 

– – –

Edward stared at the wall of slops hanging in the coat-room without really seeing them. How was he supposed to accomplish this insanity all on his own? Edward sighed. 

“Lieutenant?” asked a quiet – but firm – voice from behind him. 

Edward spun around to find the captain’s steward, Thomas Jopson, standing attentively in the doorway. 

“Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” Jopson asked. 

Edward tried to smile but couldn’t be sure what the unfamiliar expression looked like on his features, especially since Jopson’s brow creased in apparent confusion at his efforts. “No, no,” he said. “Thank you, Jopson.” 

“You’re not crossing the ice on your own, are you?” 

Touched and a bit confused by Jopson’s concern, Edward cleared his throat to buy himself some time. “I’ll be fine,” he said – after all, it wasn’t the walk that concerned him, but rather what would come after. 

Jopson narrowed his eyes. 

“Nothing to fear,” Edward bluffed. “The captain sent me on a task to help with the ice – that’s all.” 

“If it’s about the ice, why not send Mr. Blanky?” Jopson asked, with no apparent emotion in his voice, as though he were merely verifying when Edward would be taking his afternoon tea. 

Edward was entirely out of words; his mouth gaped. And yet Jopson was still looking at him, now helpfully holding out Edward’s slops, as though to help Edward dress. When Edward reached for them, Jopson simply maneuvered his arms into the heavy fabric so efficiently that Edward had no time to protest. 

“They needed– an officer… for official business,” Edward said. 

Jopson raised his brows. “Official business that calls for one officer crossing the pack alone, shortly before nightfall.”

Edward felt like a boy being reprimanded for sneaking out of the house without permission. “I’m to meet with Le Vesconte when I get there,” he said, defensively. “Two officers is enough to deliver a–”

He knew as soon as he’d said it that he should have kept his mouth shut, for Jopson’s already-intent expression sharpened once more, and his searching eyes looked knowingly over Edward in his slops. Stepping closer, Jopson spoke quietly. “I know what the men have been whispering,” he said. 

Edward bit his lip. “You know about–”

Jopson nodded. 

“I can’t believe the captain agreed to it,” Edward admitted. 

A flash of something different passed across Jopson’s pale eyes. Edward wondered if Jopson hadn’t known that – but of course he hadn’t, unless he’d been standing with his ear pressed to the cabin door when Edward and Mr. Blanky had gone to speak with Captain Crozier. Edward cursed himself. “Please don’t–” Edward said in desperation. 

“Of course not,” Jopson answered, once again deceptively demure. Edward thought that he might be coming to dread the cutting insight of Jopson’s gaze, for his heart fluttered with nerves. 

“Come now, sir,” Jopson added, however, with a small smile. “You should be on your way if you wish to reach _Erebus_ before dark.” 

Edward expected Jopson to allow him to pass by, but Jopson instead followed at Edward’s side as he ascended to the main deck and braced himself against the biting cold, despite his slops. The two of them paused at the top of the ladder, the door still slightly ajar, for Jopson wore nothing warmer than his uniform-coat. 

“Stay warm,” Jopson said, and pressed Edward’s hand. The steward hadn’t been wearing his customary white gloves, and so, at this first feel of his bare skin, Edward shivered. He tried very hard to pretend this was simply the result of the cold air. 

“I will,” Edward promised, not entirely certain his words had been heard, as Jopson was already retreating back belowdecks. 

With an embarrassed blush riding high in his own cheeks, Edward touched the place where Jopson’s hand had rested on his own as he slid his own heavy gloves on, and looked out across the ice. The last light of the short autumn day was gilding the frozen surface of the pack with warm pinks and golds. Edward would almost have said it was beautiful – thinking, in part, of the color that the cold air had brought to Jopson’s cheeks – if the task ahead of him did not weigh so heavily on his heart.


	3. Except in Times Like These

**Chapter 3: Except in Times Like These**

_the two young captains were left alone  
to plot a path back to hearth and home  
they thought to bind their hearts in one  
there, in the land of the midnight sun_

Editorial note: Historians will observe that, at 49 years of age when the ships departed England, Captain Francis Crozier could hardly be called “young,” but presumably this lyric was written with a thought to the younger Captain James Fitzjames. In fairness, both were younger than the late Captain Sir John Franklin.

– – –

**Henry “Dundy” Le Vesconte – The same day, October of 1847**

Feeling surprisingly well-fed under present circumstances, thanks to both a decent dinner with Fitzjames – as well as a little reconnaissance around the captain’s store-room, afterward – Dundy had settled into his bunk for a short nap. He had been almost asleep, despite the early hour, when a soft knock at his door brought him swiftly to his feet. No one could say that Lieutenant Le Vesconte was unprepared for the unexpected, whatever else they might say of him. 

Dundy opened the door, and peered speculatively out at where Lieutenant Edward Little – snow-covered and sad-looking – stood, shuffling his feet, in the doorway of Dundy’s cabin. 

When it was apparent that Edward was waiting upon Dundy’s greeting, Dundy spoke up: “May I help you, Edward?” 

“I– yes.” 

Dundy nodded for Edward to continue. 

“Well. I’ve been sent– that is, ah, Captain Crozier–” Edward seemed very unsure of what purpose, exactly, it was, for which he needed aid. “The men have been saying that, should two of their commanding officers, well – if those two officers were to marry, then the ice might release the ships. It’s an old superstition, apparently.” 

Dundy cocked his head. “Is it really?”

“So I’m told,” Edward muttered. 

“And this works how?”

To be completely honest with himself, Dundy didn’t fully pay attention to the explanation; he’d gotten a little distracted by the way a few snowflakes had caught in Edward’s dark hair, and how an elegant line of small freckles ran along the top of his cheek. Dundy wondered if he’d had those freckles before the summer, when they’d both been sent out on more than a few sledging expeditions. Dundy had come back with some painful frostbite, fortunately treatable; Edward had come back with a warm glow of summer sun, which was good, and a case of mild ice-blindness, which really wasn’t. Dundy was almost tempted to run a finger along the new freckles. It was an understandable distraction, Dundy reasoned. 

When at last he began to listen to what Edward was saying, Dundy realized that Edward was coming to the end of his report.

“And so said Mr. Blanky,” Edward explained, “– since he’s our expert on the ice. And the captain agreed on the matter, so here I am. We do think that this… this wedding might be a good idea.” 

Dundy looked Edward over once again. “Do you, now?”

Edward nodded, and then blinked quite fetchingly at Dundy’s contemplative silence. “I– I think it would help for the crews to see some expression of… of commitment between their commanders,” Edward said. He was standing quite close. 

Dundy swallowed. 

The obvious question should be asked. 

“Are you asking me to marry you, Edward?” 

The sound Edward made was somewhere between a society lady’s noise of mild horror and the breathless gasp of man being shot by cannon fire. “No– I’m, oh God. Um. Well– I, I don’t. But. No, no, not at all.” Edward took a breath and continued. “I mean, I’m meant to tell you that Captain Crozier wants to extend a proposal to Captain Fitzjames. Or rather, he wants you and I to do so. On his behalf, that is.” 

Dundy didn’t know whether to be amused or disappointed. “Well, then, if you’re not going to make an honest man out of me,” he joked, “let’s go see if _James_ wants to be wedded, at least.” 

Edward Little sputtered.

– – –

Dundy assumed that Fitzjames would dismiss the idea out of hand, as easily as firing off a warning shot at an advancing ship. He wasn’t entirely sure why such an image suggested itself to his mind, but he couldn’t picture Fitzjames tying himself to Captain Crozier without making a war over it. Certainly, if it had truly been Dundy to whom the suggestion had been directed, there would have been cannon fire. As it was, the possible fireworks had spun their way all through Dundy’s mind as they approached the captain’s cabin. 

The battle Dundy had been imagining never materialized. Fitzjames merely sat in silence, fingers steepled, as Lieutenant Little told him of the discontent among the men, Blanky’s initiative, and Captain Crozier’s tentative proposition. 

Dundy had been sure that Fitzjames would voice some sort of objection before it even got to this point. He’d known Fitzjames for years and the man was always willing to give an opinion when he thought that the wrong step was being taken. Which meant that somehow, Fitzjames thought this was the correct path, because he let Little talk and talk about the superstitions of the men, bungling Crozier’s proposal all to hell. 

Dundy eventually decided to interrupt. “Well, now that you’ve bungled that proposal all to hell,” he said, “What do you think, Captain?” 

Fitzjames hummed low in his throat. 

“Lieutenant Little, I must confer with Lieutenant Le Vesconte, if you’ll excuse us?” 

Little opened his mouth but, at a glance from Dundy, shut it and merely nodded a “Yes, sir,” to Fitzjames. He rose and left the cabin, shutting the door quietly behind him. 

James lifted a hand and rubbed his temple. 

“Tell me, Dundy, do you think Crozier’s serious? Is this real?” 

Dundy nodded. That was the one thing of which he was entirely certain – Edward Little wasn’t the type for practical jokes. Crozier very well might try to make a fool of his co-captain, as he had during that confusion over directions in Disko Bay thanks to the uncouth Mr. Reid, but a purposeful plot like this didn’t seem Crozier’s style at all. 

“Why, then?” James asked. He sounded tired. “Why do this? There are other ways to appease the men.”

Dundy considered this. 

“I think he knows that, ice-locked as we are, the good opinion of the men is the only resource upon which we can lean. And – well, I think he knows that there is growing concern about how seldom the two of you appear to speak, to work together.” 

“Is that so great a problem? I’ve made the effort to speak to him, you know I have. It’s not on me, this ‘two very different men on two very different ships’ business.”

“You absolutely have, Jas. The man’s not personable.” 

James drummed his fingers on the table-top, one of his usual contemplative motions. “He must have been, once, is what I don’t understand. I keep expecting to find the spark in him that I’ve been told about, but then it just – it isn’t there, Dundy. I don’t get it.” 

“A spark?” 

James waved a hand. “You know, all those stories about iceberg-fighting in the Antarctic, or his triumphs over the worst conditions with Captain Parry. That’s what I imagined he’d be like, when Barrow told me he’d volunteered for the expedition, and they intended to place him as Sir John’s Second. I thought it couldn’t be so bad, serving under a polar hero.” 

Dundy nodded. Best to let James monologue, when he got like this. 

“But this is perhaps the first thing he’s done that’s been bold – after all that talk that looked like cautious fear-mongering, and turned out to be sound advice.” James sighed, and his shoulders slumped. “We should have listened to him, Dundy, then, and–”

Dundy waited for James to finish his sentence, but he’d dropped off into silence. Dundy would have helped himself to one of the biscuits from the stash that he knew remained in the cabinet behind him, but it didn’t seem the time. 

After a few moments, James had gathered himself, and he asked, in his stronger command-voice, “Have we figured out any of the logistics, so to speak?”

“Logistics?”

“How is this to be done, who would conduct the – well, the ceremony, I suppose? When, where, and all that?” 

To Dundy’s surprise, James seemed to be genuinely considering the captain’s proposal.

“Are you genuinely considering the captain’s proposal, then?” 

James turned his head away. “I suppose I don’t have much of a choice, do I, Dundy – if the men want this, and Crozier does, then who am I to say nay?” His words were spoken harshly, bitterly. 

Dundy prepared himself to take up the role of conciliatory sibling that he’d happily cast off when he first went to sea. “Of course you have a choice, Jas. Yes, there’s a greater purpose to this, but if you can’t bear to speak of him without getting angry, Crozier won’t make you much of a match, will he? And then it won’t help anyone at all.” 

James sighed. “That’s just it, Dundy. You and I are scraping along as best we can, here, keeping the men as content as possible, but if Francis and I were to… his melancholy infects his whole ship, Dundy. I’ve seen it, those times I’ve tried to drag him out of the dark, out of the drink. I worry what that sadness would do if it touched me.”

Dundy restrained himself from making one of the seventeen obvious inappropriate jokes. 

“You don’t have to do this, Jas. You heard what Sir John said, same as I did – the man’s not meant to be all things to all people. You’ve tried to be a friend to him and he resisted; being a relation isn’t to be expected.”

Though he tried to hide it, James clearly cringed at Dundy’s words. 

“That’s not what I mean, Dundy. It’s not that I think myself above him, or think him undeserving – not by virtue of his birth, and you know that’s what Sir John meant. Only it’s all broken, all of it, and I don’t know how to fix it.” 

James settled his head in his hands. 

However well he knew James, Dundy was unused to seeing him like this, heaping the blame upon himself. “It’s not your task to fix this all on your own, Jas. Crozier must know that, or he wouldn’t have made the offer in the first place.”

Dundy realized he’d found himself arguing the merits of Crozier’s proposal, somehow. _How odd._ He still didn’t think that it was necessarily a good idea, but perhaps James wasn’t wrong to at least consider it, rather than dismissing it out of hand. Perhaps there were reasons to go through with this apart from the slim chance of a magical solution to their ice problems. 

James furrowed his brow. “Should I do this, Dundy? Maybe if we were to be…” James really seemed to struggle to speak the words, which didn’t bode well, Dundy thought. “Well, we’d have to see more of each other, speak more to each other, and maybe we’d find a way out of this mess. Who knows, maybe the men are right and this would break us out of this bleak place altogether, somehow.”

Dundy very much doubted the men were right, but decided not to say so. 

James added, “And we could always–” and then petered out. 

After a moment, Dundy prompted, “Could always–?” 

James folded his hands together. “I’ve heard that one can annul a ships-marriage once on land without too much hassle. Graham told me something of his grandfather, before he– well, what he said was, Captain Gore and his Second had never consummated the marriage, so it was simple to have it stricken from the record once they returned to England.” 

Dundy supposed that if the marriage that brought Cook’s lost expedition home had just been a show-marriage to please the men – if Captain Gore knew as well as Dundy did that the magic was most likely nonsense – then no consummation was necessary. After all, the men wouldn’t know either way. 

That made things easier, rather. 

Dundy knew James’s ‘inclinations,’ much like his own, wouldn’t have made the prospect of marrying a fellow captain unappealing in general terms, but Crozier was another case entirely. 

“You could very well do that, Jas. Crozier would make that easy, if you wanted out, after.” 

Dundy had hoped this would be reassuring, but James’s brow furrowed and he stood up, going over to the stove, apparently to warm his hands. 

Dundy tried again, “So you’re doing this, then?”

“I think – I think perhaps I am, yes.” James’s voice was unreadable, his face turned to the fire. 

“You could make it fun for everyone, I suppose, have a bit of a benjo.” 

At that, James turned back, “No, I don’t think– maybe after, perhaps, a – a breakfast, but the ceremony itself should be simple and short,” James frowned. “As short as we can manage it while still appeasing the men. I don’t think another of Captain Crozier’s oratorical performances, like what we saw at Sir John’s funeral, would help us any.” 

“A fair point.” 

“I suppose Lieutenant Little will have to officiate – he’s next in line down the chain of command.” 

“He’ll like that,” Dundy said, his grin approaching wolfish. 

Edward wouldn’t like that at all. 

“Well, call him back in, then, and tell him that,” Fitzjames said. “He can return to Francis with my acceptance and then we can start fleshing out details in earnest.” 

“I’ll walk him back to _Terror_ ,” Dundy offered. 

Fitzjames looked at him knowingly. “Try not to break him,” Fitzjames warned. 

As he stepped back out into the corridor and saw Edward Little leaning against the wall as though sleeping standing up, the snow still somehow unmelted on his long eyelashes, Dundy thought to himself that it was perfectly within his rights to selectively ignore that last order.


	4. Hate to Say I Told You So

**Chapter 4: Hate to Say I Told You So**

_‘twas said their union would break the ice  
in a noble sort of sacrifice  
so they made their vows one stormy day  
with hopes to save their ships that way_

Editorial note: Some literary authors and scholars (Atwood 1982, pg. 129, and Ross 2020, pg. 62) have speculated that the “union” referenced here is the concept of a “ships-marriage,” a superstition with which the men of the Franklin Expedition would likely have been familiar. This interpretation appears consistent with the previous verse, that Captains Crozier and Fitzjames “thought to bind their hearts in one,” and the allusion in this verse to “vows,” though there is no certain historical evidence that a ships-marriage was ever contemplated as a solution to the many challenges faced by the Franklin Expedition. 

– – –

**Thomas Jopson – A few weeks later, November of 1847**

Thomas Jopson had never thought he’d be the one to prepare his captain for his wedding. Of course, he’d once hoped to do so, back when the end of the Antarctic expedition had loomed above both of them, a wall of ice to be scaled, with salvation on the other side, when Captain Crozier was still hoping to gain the hand of Sophia Cracroft, and Jopson was hoping to gain steady employment on land as Crozier’s valet. It had been a vain hope, on both their parts: Crozier hadn’t the money to support Sophia as a wife, nor the funds to take on Jopson as his manservant. Jopson had found other jobs here and there instead, while caring for his mother, and – afterwards – had leapt at the chance to rejoin Captain Crozier at sea in the Arctic. 

Three entire winters beset in the ice hadn’t been what Jopson had imagined at all, of course. Jopson might even be bitter about it, but what did he have waiting for him at home that would really be so much better than being here? At least here, Jopson was useful, he thought, as he fitted the first epaulette onto the shoulder of his captain’s dress uniform. 

The captain’s dress uniform which he, of course, would be wearing to the wedding. 

Jopson knew that Mr. Blanky and Doctor MacDonald had placed bets on what Captain Fitzjames would be wearing. The doctor, practical as always, had placed his crown on Fitzjames wearing his dress uniform to match Crozier’s. Mr Blanky – who was likely to lose, Jopson thought – had speculated that Fitzjames would pull something out of Sir John’s costume trunk. _A dress, perhaps,_ Blanky had said, just within Jopson’s hearing and carefully away from the men – Mr. Blanky wasn’t _that_ foolhardy – _a long white dress if we’re lucky._

Once the first epaulette was in place, Jopson skirted around behind his captain to affix the second one. This done, Jopson took in Captain Crozier’s silhouette, and, not seeing any loose threads he ought to fix, nodded, and returned to the captain’s side, where he might be quietly of use, if needed.

“Is there anything else you require, sir?” Jopson asked. 

“No, thank you, Jopson.” Crozier sighed. 

“Are you certain, sir?” Jopson said. He knew there was very little he could do under the circumstances – it was too late to stop this whole affair, after all – but his captain was obviously deeply unhappy. 

Crozier looked at him askance, as if knowing Jopson’s thoughts precisely and growing impatient with them. 

Jopson looked away, but did not move. _Lose the battle, win the war._

Crozier caved and began fidgeting with his cuff – which was, of course, already straightened. “I didn’t think Fitzjames would agree to this foolishness,” Crozier said. 

“Sir, you are the expedition commander, now. Perhaps he thought it wise and appropriate to follow your lead in this matter.” 

Crozier stopped, “And since when has being Second ever stopped Fitzjames from voicing a contrary opinion?” 

“If I may, captain, as far as I’ve seen and heard, Captain Fitzjames has not questioned your decisions, in a command meeting or in any public way otherwise, since the matter of Lieutenant Fairholme’s rescue party, the day that we lost Sir John to that hole in the ice.” Jopson shuddered to remember the shouts that had echoed across to _Terror_ that day, the way the pack had opened up its jaws and swallowed their expedition’s leader where he stood. Fitzjames had been only steps away, looking horror-struck. 

Crozier tilted his head. “Is that so, Jopson?” 

Jopson nodded. “We’ve been trapped here, losing men to ice and illness and cold and every danger imaginable, for these three years, and I think Captain Fitzjames knows that you are our best hope of survival, given your experience with the conditions here, sir, and with the ice.” 

“But this isn’t a matter of experience, or even of command, for God’s sake! I am as helpless as Fitzjames is, against the pack. Why should he agree to– to– to bind himself to me, like this? He has a world of better prospects back home, I am sure.”

“But not here, sir.” Jopson pointed out, a little cheekily. He corrected, “And again – if I may – you ought not sell yourself short.”

Crozier made a despairing noise. “I just hope he does not expect miracles from me, Jopson. He should know better by now, after all.” 

Jopson nodded, “It’ll be alright, sir. I do think it will. You’ll weather this.” He brushed an invisible piece of lint from his captain’s shoulder. 

“I hope you’re right,” Crozier said, sounding very far from alright indeed. 

Outside the captain’s cabin, the ship’s bell sounded. 

Jopson touched Captain Crozier’s elbow, hoping to bring him back to earth. “That’s six bells, sir. Everyone will be waiting.” 

Captain Crozier nodded, and left Jopson to organize the cabin and then ready himself. Despite the epaulettes straightened to Jopson’s exacting standard, the captain’s shoulders slumped. 

– – –

For all of his complaining, Edward Little had apparently not been able to avoid being roped into taking a presiding role in the proceedings. There was simply no way around it – this being one of the few things upon which the two captains agreed: that the naval hierarchy prescribed that only the highest-ranking officer in an expedition had the right to conduct a marriage service, and since neither of the expedition’s captains could perform the role in this case, it fell to Commander Little, who had been field-promoted the previous week, just for this occasion. To Jopson’s eyes, no one had ever received a promotion with less joy, both Captains Crozier and Fitzjames themselves included. 

Commander Little, therefore, stood with his back to the stern, with as many men as could be packed into the Great Cabin arrayed before him – mainly officers, but their ranks had been filled out with other crewmen to witness the proceedings – as the rest of the expedition’s men, apart from a skeleton crew left behind to guard _Erebus_ , prepared for the big wedding breakfast on schedule for after the ceremony.

The wedding took place on _Terror_ , since it had been determined that, despite all the confusion, she was in fact the flagship now. Captain Crozier stood at Little’s right hand, with Mr. Blanky stationed beside him as some form of best man. Behind them, the hailstorm that had prevented much movement between the ships continued to pelt down outside the Great Cabin’s large windows. The Great Cabin itself was draped with white cloth in mimicry of wedding banners. It was an obviously half-hearted effort, but then, Jopson hadn’t been put in charge of decorations. 

Jopson was stationed carefully off to the side, where he might observe the proceedings, while remaining, himself, mainly unobserved. He was near enough, also, to step in to help, should anything go wrong. 

When the small honor-guard from _Erebus_ finally arrived with a clatter of footsteps on the upper decks, Jopson braced himself against the cabinetry, glancing around the assembled bulk of men and petty officers in order to see Captain Fitzjames’s entrance: Fitzjames was supposed to walk up the length of the ship, past the men who awaited his arrival, and down the informal aisle made along _Terror_ ’s starboard side until he reached the Great Cabin. It was far more ceremony than either captain had wanted, as far as Jopson could tell. But the men must have a chance to see their captains, to play some part in this union that was being made for their sake. The footsteps approached, and the men outside the cabin must have grown quite eerily quiet, for Jopson could count the foot-falls with ease – a series of limping strides surely belonging to Lieutenant Le Vesconte, who still favored his frostbitten left foot, some heavy steps, likely those of Second Master Henry Collins, and then, last, the even, long pace set by Fitzjames himself. It all sounded as normal to Jopson – no unusual rustles of a gown or even a spare word spoken. The silence was haunting.

There should be music at a wedding, Jopson thought. 

But sure enough, when Fitzjames entered the Great Cabin, Mr. Blanky had lost his bet. The captain of _Erebus_ wore his dress uniform, sword belted to his side, and epaulettes shining. Jopson admired Mr. Bridgens’s work in that regard, though even so experienced and skillful a steward as Bridgens could do little to disguise the fact that Fitzjames had lost weight over the last several years, and his uniform had been taken in to account for it. 

Captain Fitzjames had paused in the doorway, but when no one moved to acknowledge him, he cleared his throat. “Shall we, then?” he said. 

Jopson looked to Captain Crozier, who nodded stiffly at Fitzjames. 

Fitzjames walked up toward Crozier and Blanky and Little, rather faster than was perhaps appropriate. Behind him, Le Vesconte and Collins – an oddly matched pair, Jopson thought, given the lieutenant’s lofty disdain and the second master’s palpable anxiety – followed at a more hesitant pace. 

Once he had crossed the cabin, Fitzjames took his place beside Crozier, and locked his hands behind his back. Crozier had made some aborted motion with his arm – visible, perhaps, only to Jopson, who stood so far off to the side of the cabin – as though to reach out a hand. Instead, Crozier followed his fellow captain’s lead and clasped his own hands behind his back as well, standing still as stone. 

Little coughed, and fumbled with the Book of Common Prayer that he held. Tucked in its pages, Jopson knew, was the heavily edited copy of the “Solemnization of Matrimonie” that had been carefully picked apart by Mr. Blanky and Captain Crozier to ensure a short and accurate speech for Commander Little. 

Initially, Crozier had taken one look at the more than twenty pages of text that had been printed in the small prayer-book, and blanched as white as Little had. 

Mr. Blanky had agreed it could be shortened to the front and back of a page. After all, among the “ _the causes for the which matrimony was ordeined,_ ” some parts – “ _the procreation of children, to be brought up in the feare and nurtoure of the Lorde,_ ” for example – were not particularly applicable. Lieutenant Irving, who had been conscripted to aid in the matter, had nearly gone into conniptions at the thought that no beati omnes would be spoken, but he had been overruled. 

Eventually, Commander Little seemed to find his voice. “We are gathered together here in the sight of God to join together these men in holy matrimony,” he began. It wasn’t a terrible voice for an officiant, Jopson thought – deep enough, and even. Little continued, “which is an honorable state, instituted of God in Paradise, in the time of man’s innocence, and therefore is not to be taken in hand unadvisedly, lightly or wantonly–” Someone sniggered. Jopson thought it might have been Lieutenant Hodgson.

Fortunately, Commander Little could apparently read the room, because he skipped the next line about “ _satisfyeing mens’ carnall lustes and appetytes,_ ” – which had been put back into the script against Crozier’s express wishes. 

Instead, Little went on, “–but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God, for the purpose of mutual help and comfort, both in prosperity and adversity. Therefore if any man can show any just cause, why these two may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.” 

The Great Cabin was quiet as the grave.

Little turned to Captain Crozier first, and, using the archaic language scrawled on his paper, asked, “Wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honour and keep him, in sickness, and in health? And forsaking all others, keep only to him, so long as you both shall live?” 

Crozier, with all the enthusiasm of someone stepping up to the gallows, said, “I will.”

Ducking his head rather improperly, Little turned to Captain Fitzjames and repeated his questions, word-for-word. There had initially been some debate about whether Fitzjames would also promise to “love, comfort, honour, and keep” as a husband would, or whether he ought to be given the standard wifely words of “obey, serve, love, and cherish.” 

The debate had been ended quickly and firmly, as soon as Fitzjames had been consulted, and thus Little asked the traditional questions for a husband once more.

Fitzjames added his own “I will.” He looked as though he would rather have been shot a second time. 

At Little’s nod, Captain Crozier spoke his vows, made as simple as they could be: “I, Francis Crozier, take James Fitzjames to be my wedded husband, from this day forward, till death us depart; according to God’s holy ordinance, and thereto I plight thee my troth.” 

The echo came smoothly after: “I, James Fitzjames, take Francis Crozier to be my wedded husband, from this day forward, till death us depart, according to God’s holy ordinance, and thereto I give thee my troth.” 

Commander Little held out his Book of Common Prayer, and Fitzjames placed his hand upon it, in a gesture that had been decided upon in the absence of a wedding ring for the bride. After a moment, Crozier awkwardly placed his hand on top of Fitzjames’s, jolting slightly at the contact. 

Little commanded, “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put–” 

Crozier’s hand was already behind his back before Little had said “–asunder.” Fitzjames looked increasingly concerned, but gracefully removed his hand as well. 

Little shifted back and forth on his feet, apparently preparing to give the final blessing. “For as much as these two men have consented together in holy wedlock,” he recited in his smooth voice, “and have witnessed the same before God, and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth each to the other, I pronounce that they be wedded together.”

At this point, Little made a valiant effort to turn his eyes to meet those of the captains. He failed, and spoke the last words, instead, to his boots, “May the Lord mercifully with his favour look upon you, and so fill you with all spiritual benediction, and grace, that you may so live together in this life, that in the world to come, you may have life everlasting.” As though he had forgotten that it was finally over, Little whispered the final “Amen,” as an apologetic afterthought. 

As per tradition, Captain Crozier and Captain Fitzjames walked together out of the cabin, studiously avoiding the eyes of the assembled men and officers. The wedding party, such as it might be called, filed out quietly behind them. 

Only Blanky remained, as a groom’s best man ought, though Blanky had no clergyman to thank. He shook his head, and looked at Jopson, who had stayed behind, of course, melting quietly into the wall of the cabin behind him. 

“Well that’s that,” Blanky said. 

Jopson nodded. “Think so, sir.” 

And with that, the event was over. Jopson glanced out the windows of the Great Cabin. The hail continued to rain down, without a lick of concern for the men trapped in their wooden ships. With a heavy heart, Jopson began to take down the wedding drapes and return the Great Cabin to its normal appearance. 

– – –

Jopson, for once, would have been happy to retreat to his own room after he had finished tending to the captain, following the wedding breakfast and the day’s half-hearted festivities, but, oddly, Captain Crozier called for a last round of tea before bed. Surely a man on his wedding night wouldn’t wish the interruption of his steward with tea? Crozier didn’t even like tea, unless Jopson acquiesced to sneak in a dram of whiskey, as Jopson was assuredly planning to do in this instance, given the look on his captain’s face. But it was not Jopson’s lot to question when his captain chose to take his tea. 

On his way back to Crozier’s cabin, with the tea pot filled and the tea already steeping, Jopson heard low voices coming from the wardroom, where Fitzjames and Crozier had been known to settle on the few nights when Captain Fitzjames used to come to _Terror_ , earlier in the year, when the sun still routinely rose above the horizon. Clearly, the two captains had settled into old rhythms, unusual though the day had been. 

“So – all that fuss for nothing,” Fitzjames’s voice sounded exhausted, though it was muffled by the door. 

Jopson could hear Crozier sigh. “Apparently so.” 

If anything, the hail had only gotten worse, and the ice creaked audibly against _Terror_ ’s hull. No real impact of the wedding could yet be discerned – not from the weather, at least.

“Did anyone really expect it to work, do you think?” 

Crozier scoffed. “I didn’t. But I thought the men would be happier, getting what they seemed to want.”

“A dangerous thing, getting what one wants.” 

“Perhaps.”

“Do you think–”

There was silence for a few moments.

“Do I think _what_ , James?” 

“Do you think, perhaps, it’s not over?” Captain Fitzjames’s voice was quiet, hesitating. Jopson wasn’t used to hearing it so, in contrast to the man’s usual booming narration and firm shouting of orders and cheers. “Do you think that we haven’t – well, that we haven’t completed what’s expected of us?” 

“You don’t mean–” There was more silence, and then Crozier spoke again. “Christ, James. Why won’t you just leave it be?” 

“I had thought that you meant this in earnest, Francis. Why go through with the agony of the ceremony and then risk leaving the whole matter half-completed?” 

“I wouldn’t force you–”

Fitzjames interrupted, “You wouldn’t be forcing me, Francis. I agreed to this.” 

“Fine.” Crozier sounded like he was gritting his teeth. 

“Let’s get this over with, then.”

Jopson hurried away, a blush beginning to form high on his cheeks. Surely Captain Crozier wouldn’t want tea now, he thought. Better Crozier have to ring a second time than Jopson risk causing an unfortunate interruption. 

As Jopson slid silently down the corridor with his tea-tray in hand, past the row of officers’ cabins, a door opened and Commander Little nearly crashed into him. Jopson steadied the man with a polite hand to the shoulder, easily keeping his tray balanced with the other hand, not spilling a drop.

“Alright there, sir?” Jopson asked. 

The commander looked shaken. “I’m so sorry, Jopson,” he said. “I didn’t expect–”

“–what is it, Ned?” another voice called out from inside the cabin. 

Jopson lifted a brow. 

Commander Little blushed deep red when Lieutenant Le Vesconte, tall and imperious, appeared in the doorway behind him and looked down at Jopson over the commander’s shoulder. 

“Lieutenant,” Jopson nodded his head deferentially, “I hadn’t realized you were still aboard.” 

It surprised Jopson that he’d failed to notice that Le Vesconte hadn’t departed with the other Erebites. Jopson must have been truly disoriented by the chaos of the wedding breakfast and the crew’s celebrations, to lose track of who remained on _Terror_. 

“I remain in case my captain has need of me,” Le Vesconte said coolly. “I did send Collins back with the others, to relieve poor Des Voeux of his command.”

“Is there anything you require, sirs?” Jopson asked. 

Little began to speak, “I was just going to fetch–” before cutting himself off abruptly. With an air of mild panic, he looked back at Le Vesconte. 

Jopson realized that the commander’s lips were bitten red, and he looked suspiciously rumpled. A glance up at the lieutenant confirmed that his appearance was much the same, but with the addition of an appraising look in his eye, aimed in Jopson’s direction. Jopson met Le Vesconte’s glance evenly. The lieutenant’s firm mouth softened into a slightly predatory grin. 

Jopson kept his chin high and his eyes on Le Vesconte. “I think I can say that your captain has little need of you at the moment, sir – for I might safely say the same of my own,” Jopson said, keeping his voice as innocent as possible. “So perhaps I might offer my services? What was Commander Little intending to fetch?”

Little jumped in. “I’ve run out of– of– er, lanolin. For the lieutenant’s frostbite, that is.”

Le Vesconte pursed his lips as if hiding a laugh. Jopson knew that Le Vesconte’s frostbite from the previous summer had healed long ago. And he knew of several other uses for lanolin. 

“As you say, sir. I know where that’s kept,” Jopson offered, assuming the promise in his voice would reach one of the officers – if perhaps not both. “Would you like me to leave it out for you, or shall I knock when I return?” 

Little, as Jopson had rather expected, wrinkled his brow in confusion and began to shake his head in dismissal, but Le Vesconte placed a discreet hand on Little’s hip, drawing him close to whisper something – no more than a word or two – in his ear. A gentle curl of gray hair fell over the lieutenant’s eyes. Jopson rather thought someone ought to straighten it. 

Commander Little’s eyes widened. “Oh– oh, well, then. Do knock, Jopson, if you would?” 

“As you wish, sir,” Jopson said. Little looked lovely like that, he thought – his eyes dark and deep with his surprise. 

“Thank you, Jopson,” Le Vesconte added, voice laden with intent. 

Jopson grinned. “My pleasure,” he said, and turned to fetch the lanolin on silent feet.

As he set down the tea-tray on a nearby serving-surface for Mr. Diggle to collect at his earliest convenience, Jopson dared a last glance down the now-empty hallway into officers’ territory. Little and Le Vesconte had partly hidden themselves around the bend behind the commander’s half-closed cabin door, but Jopson could still see that Le Vesconte had the commander pressed up against the doorjamb as he ran a possessive hand up Little’s neck. Commander Little, who had turned his eyes down the corridor, caught Jopson’s gaze and gasped, the sound swallowed by the shifting of the ice around the ship and the continuing hail. Still, Little looked delightfully overwhelmed. 

Jopson smiled to himself. The three of them, at least, might have an enjoyable night.


	5. Don’t Call Me By My Old Names

**Chapter 5: Don’t Call Me By My Old Names**

_alas the ice held far too fast  
against its strength no man could last  
each day it took its fearsome toll  
and stole away another soul_

– – –

**Tom Hartnell – The next month, December of 1847**

It was almost as though the ships-marriage had changed nothing. 

Just as Jack Cowie had said from the beginning, Tom Hartnell thought. He should have known better than to listen to old gossip-mongers like Morfin and Weekes, peddling their miracle solutions. 

There was no magic here: they were still locked in the pack, mountains of ice rising around them on every side, slowly dragging the two ships apart. As Tom looked out over the pack from his position, high up in _Terror_ ’s rigging near the foretop, it seemed as though the ice had formed its own waves in mockery of the open sea: giant, looming white floes that threatened to crash over the ship and crush them all to atoms. 

Though Tom had originally been billeted on _Erebus_ with his brother, those three long years ago, he had recently taken to making the dangerous journey over to _Terror_ to assist Mr. Blanky as often as possible. Ever since they’d lost Mr. Reid to the punishing cold earlier in the winter, Tom had been trying to learn as much as he could about the ice and limit the number of trips Mr. Blanky had to make himself.

They could perhaps survive losing one ice master; Tom didn’t think they could afford to lose two. 

“How does it look from up there, lad?” Mr. Blanky asked as he climbed up the rigging from further below. 

“Not lovely.” 

Blanky laughed. “As you will – you might come to love the ice one day, son, but I take your meanin’. The ridges are still on the rise, then?” 

Despite the conditions, Tom grinned. “Looks like they’re on the rise still, aye, sir.” The ice seemed to lift around them, sinking _Terror_ into a treacherous valley of icy stalagmites. It looked like nothing Tom Hartnell had ever seen. 

“How many degrees up?” Blanky asked. 

Tom peered through his spyglass – originally Lieutenant Irving’s, long ago pilfered from Sergeant Tozer and never returned. “Only a few, sir,” Tom said. “But more this week than last, I think.”

Blanky reached out a be-mittened hand, and Tom handed the telescope over. After peering through it, Mr. Blanky frowned and nodded. Tom took that as agreement, as a wave of shivers swept over him – hopefully that would be enough looking at the ice for today, Tom thought to himself. 

With winter fully upon them, it was too cold to stay outside for long – Mr. Darlington the caulker and his young, fresh-faced caulker’s mate Cornelius (whom the ABs had taken to calling ‘Nelly,’ much to poor Nelly’s distress) had already sealed up all but one of the hatches to the upper deck. And none too soon; looking out over the vast expanse of ice, lit up dimly in the starlight, and wracked by a punishing breeze, Tom Hartnell wished very much to be inside in the relative warmth. 

Mr. Blanky thumped the mast twice, testing the ice that encased it, which shivered but did not budge. “Alright then,” he said to Tom. “Time to go inside, tell the captain what we’ve found.” 

Tom shivered again, and not entirely from the cold this time. The wind picked up, making the ship creak and groan. 

Captain Crozier hadn’t truly warmed any, after the wedding. In fact, the best Tom could say for the whole “marriage” concept was that it had finally driven Captain Crozier to curtail his drink. Tom knew well enough what a man looked like when he was drinking too early in the day and too often, and that was exactly how Crozier had looked for their first year trapped in the ice, almost every day. Tom had been glad to be stationed on _Erebus_ , under the demanding but upright Captain Fitzjames, whom, Tom liked to think, at least possessed something _approaching_ a sense of humor. Better than being always afraid of the whiskey-soaked whims of Captain Crozier, certainly. 

It had scared Tom, honestly. Young though he might be, Tom had been at sea for more of his life than he’d been on land, and a drunk captain was not a good or a safe captain, especially not when conditions were dangerous. But although Captain Crozier had cut down on his drinking, his temper hadn’t calmed much. A dark melancholy had settled over him, the men said, and he rarely spoke to anyone apart from his steward, or Commander Little, or Mr. Blanky. After that first night following the wedding, even Captain Fitzjames – his _husband_ – had returned to haunting _Erebus_ , appearing to his own crew only to conduct inspections and bark orders. To be entirely honest, Tom hadn’t seen much of either captain in the last month, and as much as it worried him, he was always relieved when Mr. Blanky sent him away before reporting to Crozier. 

Today was to be the day that changed, apparently.

Despite his reservations, Tom followed Mr. Blanky down the rigging to the upper deck and then back inside the welcoming warmth of the ship and past the invisible line into officers’ country. Those lines of formality had blurred more than average this past year, but Tom still crossed himself unconsciously as they passed by the officers’ bunks, heading back toward the Great Cabin. Blanky ducked through the open door, and after a moment, Tom Hartnell followed, trying to shake the sense of a bad omen that clung to his skin. 

Mr. Blanky was already seated, sharing a quiet word with the captain. 

“Ah, Hartnell.” Crozier’s voice when he greeted Tom was cheery, which seemed like a good sign. 

Crozier and Mr. Blanky exchanged a few more words as Tom debated whether he ought to sit, and if so, where. His debate was resolved when the captain pushed a chair out from the table and motioned for Tom to settle himself beside Mr. Blanky. 

Jopson, Crozier’s steward, swept in with a tray, and offered a cup of tea to Mr. Blanky, who took the delicate china carefully, touching just his bare fingers to the porcelain. When it was Tom’s turn, he couldn’t help but feel it might be rude to refuse. He cradled the cup in both hands. It seemed finer work than anything his ma had ever had, though Tom suspected a tea-set on a ship was liable to have pieces broken or smashed more often than a tea-set kept safely on land, captain’s china or no. 

“So, how fares our girl?” Captain Crozier asked, as Jopson retreated to the shadows of the Great Cabin. 

Blanky shrugged. “Same as she’s been, Francis,” he said. 

The captain looked to Hartnell as if to confirm this. Tom nodded. The ice was encroaching steadily around _Terror_ , sealing her slowly in an icy tomb. 

“And how she’s been is bad, Francis,” Blanky added, firmly. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but _Terror_ ’s a danger to us – this is what ice looks like when it’s about to crush a ship, and you know it, because I’ve told you often enough. We won’t last much longer.”

Tom shuddered. It hadn’t hit home to him how bad the conditions really were, somehow. Of course they’d lost men to the ice, but not like this. Never a whole ship. 

_Their_ ship. Their _home_. 

Blanky continued, placing his tea cup on the rope-rigged table, “We’ll have to move the men to _Erebus_ , for as long as that lasts us. And then, if this doesn’t let up by some magic, we’ll have to walk out.”

Tom felt himself shudder all over. Captain Crozier didn’t look much better off. 

“This is _my_ ship, Thomas,” the captain insisted. “I’ll not leave her.” 

“We’ll lose her _and_ all her men if you don’t leave her now, Francis,” Blanky replied. 

The thought of leaving the ships behind and setting off across the ice on foot sounded like a death sentence to Tom Hartnell, but he knew Blanky had yet to be wrong about the pack and the danger it posed. The ship creaked ominously in the ice, as if voicing an agreement. 

“Well, God willing, we’ll weather this winter like we did the last and the ice will release us come spring,” Crozier said darkly. 

“You’re beginnin’ to sound like good old Sir John, God rest his soul,” Blanky said, a harsh note in his voice. “I know he dressed you down when the pack didn’t crush us last winter as we’d suspected, but this winter looks to be worse than last, as I’ve said a hundred times. I’d thought to expect some realism from you, Frank, not Providence-talk.” 

An ugly anger crossed the captain’s face. Tom began to think that Jopson had had the right idea, melting into the cabinetry and averting his gaze. Tom also wished he was seated a little further away from Mr. Blanky, the object of Crozier’s current ire.

“Those are some words, coming from the mouth that’s advised such foolishness this winter already,” Francis hissed. “Or do you still think any God would care what we do out here? Did you think we’d please anyone with those ridiculous prayer-vows? And now you speak to _me_ of realism!” 

“Aye, Francis, I do.” Blanky said, ice-cold. “You know why I thought a marriage would be a good idea, and it wasn’t for God or Sir John or Queen and country. And if you’d put any effort into it at all, maybe it wouldn’t be such an unmitigated disaster, now, would it? Ice be damned, at least we’d not be making the men jumpy and afraid. You’ve gone into this as though you want to be despised.”

Just as Mr. Blanky made this last damning comment, the door to the Great Cabin opened without warning. Tom turned to see Jopson sliding out of the way with less than his usual grace – as startled as Tom was, it seemed – and Captain Fitzjames striding in, with Commander Little following awkwardly behind, reaching out an arm as if to restrain Fitzjames, which Fitzjames ignored entirely. 

“What on earth is happening here?” Fitzjames asked. 

“Oh God,” Crozier groaned. “Get off my ship.”

“I have every right to be here, Francis.” 

“ _Don’t_ call me Francis!”

“Oh really? What should I call you then? Husband? Should I call you ‘captain,’ and pretend I am some navy wife awaiting her husband’s grand return? I am trapped, just as you are, out here. You want those titles – captain, husband? Then _earn_ them.”

“What would you have me–” Crozier began.

But Captain Fitzjames, it seemed, was not finished, “–there hasn’t been a night we’ve spent together or a meal we’ve shared when you haven’t been trying to push me away, acting like a man who’s been wronged in his marriage. This was not what I agreed to – I meant every word I’ve said to you, every vow I made. I haven’t wronged you, Francis.” 

Crozier scoffed. “You’re innocent of all this, then?” he said, sarcasm lancing through his words. “What happened to the Fitzjames who could hardly spare an agreeable word, a year ago? I know what you and your beloved Sir John said about the disastrous Francis Crozier. Why should the hero of the China Wars stoop to marrying me at all?”

“A question I ask myself daily,” Fitzjames sneered. “I don’t know why I thought you’d make a passable husband when you can barely handle the responsibilities of command. What a disappointment the great explorer of the Antarctic turned out to be.” 

Crozier’s face was set in hostile lines, and he rose, irate, to his feet. It looked for a moment as though he would begin shouting once more, or perhaps dismiss his Second from the cabin with a cold command, but then whatever was restraining him must have broken, Tom thought, because the captain snapped. 

There was no time for anyone to step in. Crozier’s fist was already rushing toward Fitzjames’s jaw. 

The moment Crozier’s strike landed, the whole ship shuddered, sending both men crashing to the floor. Tom saw them fall as his chair listed sideways, and he grabbed desperately for the table, just managing to keep himself from falling, though the chair beneath him wasn’t so lucky. The same unfortunate fate befell Tom’s tea cup, which crashed to the floor and broke into innumerable pieces with sharp edges that threatened a terrible wound if Tom hadn’t caught himself on the table. 

As soon as the shaking stopped, Tom moved to attend Captain Fitzjames, who had been thrown to his knees. Jopson – oddly, Tom thought – did the same. The two of them helped Fitzjames to his feet. 

Tom turned around to see Mr. Blanky and Commander Little standing guard around Captain Crozier. Or rather – the commander seemed to be on guard, but Mr. Blanky was speaking to Crozier, quick and furious. 

“–as if this was somehow his fault alone,” Blanky was saying as Tom finally caught his words. 

“You will remove him.” Crozier’s voice brooked no objection. 

“I will _not_ , Francis,” Blanky said. 

“I want you off this ship, now,” Crozier said through clenched teeth. 

Blanky gave the captain a narrow-eyed glare, but left the cabin – although the floor, and the doorway with it, now inclined even more steeply. He slammed the door behind him, and his footsteps could be heard as he made his way, unmistakably, toward the ladder to the top deck. 

A frigid silence descended on the Great Cabin, interrupted only by the moaning of the ice outside. 

Fitzjames worked his jaw, which was beginning to show the first signs of a bruise. He had just opened his mouth to speak when the wind howled past the ship in a huge gust, bringing the sound of crashing ice with it – and then, of splintering wood, as though _Terror_ were, at that very second, being swallowed up. Shouts echoed down from the upper decks. A scream pierced through the storm that had surrounded them. 

Captain Crozier’s eyes widened, and he rushed out the door. Fitzjames was quick to follow him, and Tom found himself falling into step with Jopson as they raced to follow.

Crozier ran to the ladder, and pushed against the hatch until it burst open. Tom could hardly see past the press of bodies, but once both captains had stepped out into the storm, Tom had a view – a terrifying view – of the top deck. _Terror_ , stuck as slanted as she was, was menaced by a towering, sheer cliff of ice, taller even than the foretop. This mountain had risen up suddenly over the uphill port side. It glittered in the polar starlight, as sharp as a blade, but the wind that rushed around the ship pulled at it with furious fingers, until it crumbled into a hideous torrent, sending enormous blocks of ice racing toward the ship’s deck. Tom watched in horror as the wall of ice crashed down, tearing at the wood beneath it, groaning like a dying beast. And Mr. Blanky was standing directly in its path. 

Tom ran toward the avalanche, but he knew that he had no hope of outrunning it. He sprinted on, anyway. 

He wasn’t fast enough. At the last moment, Tom saw that Captain Crozier must have had the same thought and was, at that same time, hurtling toward Mr. Blanky – and Crozier had had a head start on Tom. Shocked, Tom watched as Crozier dove toward the ice. The captain’s face was frozen in a determined grimace. 

There was a hideous crushing noise. Tom threw his hands up in panic to cover his face. He felt sharp fragments of ice sting his skin, and a larger sliver cut into his forearm. Tom’s heart raced in his chest. 

When Tom at last looked up, _Terror_ ’s deck appeared like the scene of a stage-horror: men were strewn about, some conscious, some not; most bleeding. Mr. Blanky seemed to have escaped the worst of it, lying mostly whole against the ship’s side, but with his leg at an awkward angle. 

Tom rushed over to see if he could be of help. “Mr. Blanky? Sir, are you alright?” 

Blanky groaned, opening his eyes with apparent effort. “Help–” he said, breathing heavily. “Help the captain.” 

Tom looked around. “Where–”

Blanky pointed down toward the starboard side of the ship, which had listed even lower than before. With growing horror, Tom realized that Jopson and Fitzjames were leaning there, bent over the side of the ship, and below them, sprawled over a shelf of ice, lay Captain Crozier. And the ice beneath him had been set rolling, as though hit by waves, sending Crozier sliding closer and closer to the gnawing edge of the berg. 

Tom tried to move to the starboard side, but _Terror_ bucked beneath him, and he tripped, falling hard on his knee. Tom thought he could feel blood seeping into his trouser-leg, and when he glanced down, the fabric was torn at the knee. Frantic, Tom looked back at Mr. Blanky, who was trying and failing to lift himself on the leg that Tom had seen twisted, crooked, under him. 

“Francis,” Blanky called, but his shout was stolen by the icy wind. 

Tom turned and saw that Crozier was now standing on the ice, which was sinking away from the ship as though crumbling back into the sea. Crozier’s mouth was open, his eyes panicked. He looked up toward _Terror_ , and finally seemed to realize that he had gone overboard, that the sea – ice though it was – was about to claim him like poor Graham Gore or Captain Sir John. 

The instant their hands touched, the deck of _Terror_ shivered violently again, like dry land wracked by an earthquake. Tom was thrown hard against the ship’s deck once more, and he hissed with the pain of it. Ice and splintered wood bit into his palms as he lifted himself up.

When he managed to look around once more, Tom saw that, were it not for Fitzjames’s iron grip, Crozier would surely have fallen into the gaping maw of the ice. Instead – with shocking strength – Fitzjames lifted Captain Crozier up until he could grip the gunwale and pull himself up one-handed. The moment Crozier’s hand met the firm wood of _Terror_ once more, the ship’s shaking stilled. To Tom, the ship’s deck seemed strangely flat and even, no longer tilting dangerously as it had been for so many months.

As steady on his feet as he could manage, Tom rushed over to the ship’s side.

Tom was beside Fitzjames and Jopson within seconds. When Tom reached out and tried to grab Crozier’s gloved left hand, however, the captain flinched and drew the hand away as though burned. Tom hovered, uncertain, until he could see a place to put his arm where it might aid the captain’s climb. At last, Captain Crozier was safely back aboard _Terror_. 

“Thomas?” Crozier said, roughly in Tom’s direction, his voice scratched and low. He collapsed, then, against the gunwale, and Jopson helped lower him down to the deck.

Tom Hartnell looked behind himself. But there was no one else near, only Jopson and Captain Fitzjames, off to Crozier’s left. Then Tom remembered that Crozier had been swept off the ship while racing to aid Mr. Blanky. 

“I’ll get him for you, sir,” Tom said, and rushed back to Blanky’s side. 

Blanky had, by this point, braced himself against the mast, and was inching his way toward the starboard side, despite what was very clearly a broken leg. 

Tom rushed to place himself on the same side as Blanky’s injury, so that the ice master might lean on him. “Here, sir,” he said. “Let me.” Acting as a crutch, Tom helped Blanky limp to where Captain Crozier lay. 

“Francis,” Blanky said, reaching out for Crozier’s hand, but even at Blanky’s touch, Crozier recoiled. Blanky tilted a suspicious brow. 

Captain Fitzjames, who seemed to have less compunction about touching _Terror_ ’s captain, reached out, and began peeling up Crozier’s glove, but Crozier gasped in pain, and Fitzjames relented. Tom realized that the glove was darkened with blood, and that several of Crozier’s fingers did not seem to curl correctly as Crozier held the injured hand to his chest. Blanky, evidently worried, put his hand on the captain’s shoulder instead. 

Crozier looked up at the small crew of men assembled around him: Captain Fitzjames and Jopson on his left, and Tom and Mr. Blanky on his right. He was breathing heavily. The ice clung to the wool of his coat, and the wind still howled around them all. From behind them, Tom heard the sound of Commander Little shouting for any free hands to help get the wounded below deck and down to Doctor MacDonald, and to tend to the dead. 

The scope of what had happened swept over Tom – and, seemingly, over everyone. Jopson covered his mouth with one gloved hand. Blanky thumped a fist against his one good leg. Fitzjames made a small, injured noise. And Captain Crozier hung his head, and looked down to where his hands were held against his chest. 

“I’m sorry, Thomas,” Crozier said. A pause. “James. I should never have–” The silence was stolen by the wind, but Crozier swallowed against his own wounded breaths. “You didn’t deserve that. I don’t deserve you.”

Tom Hartnell at last realized that he’d been witness to more officers’ business than anyone had likely intended. But before Tom could make some move to slip away and join Commander Little’s salvage and rescue efforts, Mr. Blanky put his other hand on Tom’s shoulder. When Mr. Blanky spoke, it was loud enough for everyone in their small group to hear: “You’re alive, Francis,” Mr. Blanky said in his gruff voice. “That’s good enough for me. Now let’s get you taken care of.” 

Captain Fitzjames huffed a wry laugh in Blanky’s direction, “I might say the same to you, Thomas – will you please let Hartnell here take you to get that leg looked at?” 

Tom Hartnell stood up straight, and offered his arm to Mr. Blanky once again. “Sir?” 

When Tom had taken most of Mr. Blanky’s weight, they began to return toward the hatch, where men were hastening back and forth, ferrying the wounded to safety and carrying the dead away from the last vestiges of the storm. As they waited for Henry Peglar to pass by, aiding a semi-conscious Lieutenant Irving, Tom glanced back at Captain Crozier. 

Jopson was kneeling next to the captain, removing the glove from his injured hand as carefully as one might wish. But Crozier had eyes only for Fitzjames, who was speaking softly to him. Tom saw Fitzjames bow his head over the fingers of Crozier’s uninjured other hand, and Tom almost believed that Captain Fitzjames pressed a tentative kiss there, before Tom and Mr. Blanky were finally permitted to pass below.


	6. We Let Our Ships Collide

**Chapter 6: We Let Our Ships Collide**

_but these two captains did not lose heart  
although their ships were pushed apart   
they waited through six months of night   
until the sun once more gave light_

Editorial note: The polar night in the Canadian Arctic does not, in fact, last six months. The authors of these lyrics were, presumably, British naval men who happened to have limited experience of winter in the Arctic Circle, or perhaps simply sailors prone to exaggeration.

– – –

**James Fitzjames – Near the end of January 1848, a week before the first sunrise**

James tangled his fingers together beneath the table, wishing very much that it would not be inappropriate for a captain to sketch during a command meeting. James always focused more easily with a pen or a rope or a cannon-taper in his hand; sitting idle while he listened to Lieutenant Hodgson recite a list of injuries reported from Doctor MacDonald’s sickbay was not his forte. Yet this was what was expected of him, so this was what James did. 

Tragically, Hodgson did not seem to be winding his report to a close with any particular alacrity. Certainly the officers needed to know the names of the wounded and the dead, but there was not much assistance that anyone of the wardroom could provide when it came to speculating whether a broken arm would heal straight or not. James endured it as long as he was able, tapping the tips of his fingers against his leg and imagining he could help these poor men in any way, and then when the lieutenant paused for a breath, James seized the opportunity. 

“Thank you, Lieutenant, that should do for now,” James said, with as much of his normal command-voice as he could muster. “Please tell Doctor MacDonald that we can spare extra medical supplies from _Erebus_ , and we also can spare Doctor Goodsir to deliver them and to provide further aid, if the doctor wishes. The rest of you Terrors can ready yourselves to leave – I’d like a word with Mr. Blanky, but it shouldn’t take long.” 

Lieutenants Hodgson and Irving filed dutifully out of the room – Irving, though nursing a broken arm, was already on the mend. 

James resettled himself, and gestured for Bridgens to bring another round of tea, which Blanky waved away. 

When they were alone once again, James looked over to the ice master. 

“So, how is Francis faring?” James asked. James knew better than to ask after Blanky’s leg once again – he’d voiced some concern to see Thomas Blanky among the small group who had crossed to _Erebus_ for the command meeting, but Blanky had only stared James down from his position balanced nimbly atop his crutches and said nothing. 

It had seemed to James that Thomas Blanky had been the more injured of the two, between the ice master and the captain. But while Blanky was recovering quickly, Francis had only grown weaker. His hand, Doctor MacDonald had said, was not likely to heal cleanly, and Francis shouldn’t hope to have use of it again. 

“It’s been discovered that Francis broke a rib or two as well,” Blanky replied, as if adding to James’s thoughts. 

James stifled a groan of frustration. “Poorly, then,” he said. 

Blanky nodded, looking unhappy. 

“There’s not much I can do, I suppose,” James mused. 

“Well, I’ve been puttin’ some thought to that,” Blanky said, but did not elaborate further. 

“I’d meant to ask…” James paused, unsure, and then turned away to putter with the stove, feeling the cold even in the wardroom at the very heart of _Erebus_. 

But Blanky did not let this thread spin off. “You said that you’d a question for me? I’d figured it weren’t just about Francis,” Blanky said. James worried perhaps that there was some impatience in his voice, and though James was loath to appear as a captain willing to bend to the whims of those under his command, he nodded, gathering up his nerves. 

“Ah,” James began. “I’d meant to ask, that is, I wondered if I might – well, if I might have you to thank for the suggestion of this marriage business in the first place.” 

Blanky’s laughter was brief and perhaps a little self-critical, James thought. “Aye,” Blanky admitted. “You might say that. At least, I was the one who carried the idea to Ned Little, and he to Francis. But the men were thinkin’ it before that, even.” 

“How then did sailors’ whispers become captain’s counsel?” 

“I’ll take the blame for that,” Blanky repeated. “And – though you oughtn’t find any fault with him – your Mr. Bridgens advised me with some history.”

This surprised James more than a little. “Mr. Bridgens – indeed?” 

“Aye, I asked him what he knew about the matter, and he told me about the Greeks and Romans.” 

James laughed, softly and fondly. “That’s our Bridgens alright.”

“Told me there was thought to be some magic in a ships-marriage,” Blanky continued. “And though neither of us believed it, I reckon, an attractive fancy it was – and perhaps not near so fantastical as it seemed at first, if my eyes saw true that night on _Terror_.” 

James blushed at Blanky’s searching gaze. “You speak of how the ship straightened itself when I reached for Francis? A trick of the ice, nothing more.”

But Blanky shook his head. “Never seen ice behave like that,” he said, voice like a blade. “Never known a ship beset to shudder at a captain’s touch like Frank’s Neptune, eager for a scratch.”

James spared a self-conscious moment to regret how obviously he loved Francis’s dog, how happily he’d gotten to his knees and accepted lovely, sloppy kisses from the animal over the last few years. It had always made Francis scowl and Sir John grimace, but James couldn’t help himself; Neptune’s undiscerning affection was a single warm thing in their cold world. 

“What then– what then do you think caused it?” James asked. “Do you truly think it possible? That this is magic somehow?”

Blanky set his jaw and looked directly at James. “I don’t know magic – I only know ice. And this isn’t what ice does, in my experience. If you and Francis have some effect on the ice, or on the ships, then mayhap you’ve more control over affairs than we yet know.” 

“That’s bordering on unscientific,” James said. 

Blanky huffed. “It’s observation, that’s all. Scientific as they come. There might not have been any magic in that chilly ceremony we cooked up two months ago, but you two did aught you could to avoid each other – during and after – so it doesn’t surprise me. But that night on _Terror_ , it _felt_ different – the air was charged and ready, and it weren’t just the storm. Don’t need to see it to know it’s there.” 

“Well then, in your _scientific_ opinion, what changed?” 

“For a start, you reached out a hand to him – seemed to be the start of it all, near as I could tell. A gesture. And you meant it – you _wanted_ to save him. As I said to Francis, the marriage might have been different if you had put your hearts into it. Could be worth givin’ it another go.” 

James pursed his lips and said nothing on the matter. “What does Francis think of this?” James asked instead, resolving to reserve his opinion. 

“He won’t tell me much,” Blanky admitted. “Too busy pretendin’ he’s not injured, I think.” 

James tried not to fret. “You said – earlier – that you’ve been putting some thought to Francis’s condition, and how I might be of help?” 

“It’s more a curiosity than aught else,” Blanky said. “But I’d wondered if he might feel better if you were with him.” 

James cocked his head, aiming for imperious and knowing he fell short. 

“I’ve seen it before with my girls, when they were younger,” Blanky clarified. “When they had summat to say to me or their ma, they’d heal slower and feel worse. I think Francis has some words saved up for you, and he’d feel better if you heard them.” 

“I wouldn’t want to interfere–” James began, but he already knew that he was losing ground.

“You could come back to _Terror_ with me tonight,” Blanky offered. “Have a chat with him. See if you can ease him any. He’s never asleep at this hour.” 

James tilted his head again and restrained himself from steepling his fingers. “I think I may do that, Mr. Blanky,” he agreed, though he knew his voice sounded more contemplative than authoritative. 

Blanky nodded. “Well, onward, then,” he said, and, with a nod of his head, he was off – already quicker with his crutches than James on his two good feet. 

– – – 

Although Jopson had apparently worked with great dedication to ensure that no one could sneak into Francis’s sick-room, there was nothing much Jopson could do about James. 

When James and Blanky appeared in the doorway to the captain’s quarters, still in their snow-covered slops, Jopson certainly tried to shuffle the both of them along, but Mr. Blanky clapped him on the shoulder, and cajoled him gently, saying, “When’s the last time you had summat to eat, lad, hmmm? Let’s get you some food, yes?” leaving James entirely free to slip into Captain Crozier’s cabin – it was half his cabin, after all, in law, if not in spirit or reality. 

As he closed the door behind him, James heard Jopson sputtering down the corridor, steered by Blanky’s friendly arm of iron. 

When James turned around, a small smile of amusement lingered on his lips, but he froze when he saw that, despite the hour, Francis was awake, much as Blanky had predicted – relatively bright-eyed, given the hour, and quite certainly aware. 

It was the first time James and Francis had been alone – with Francis lucid – since that miserable night on _Terror_. James had stayed away, restrained by Jopson’s fervency as a nurse-maid and by his own self-doubt. 

At first, the conversation was somewhat stilted. 

“James.” 

“Francis,” James said. “How are you coping?” 

Francis coughed, and James instinctively reached for a glass of water that had been placed on the desk’s slanting surface and braced with books to account for the way that _Terror_ had once more begun to list sideways in the ice over the course of the last several weeks since the avalanche.

James so feared to betray himself, but he knew he had already given something of himself away, with his talk of vows and disappointments, and the desperate kiss he’d pressed to Francis’s fingers in the aftermath of having almost lost the man entire. James didn’t know what had driven him to do it. Francis was infuriating – dangerous, even. James could feel the ghost of Francis’s fist against his jaw. 

But Francis didn’t seem so dangerous now, lying abed. 

“I’m glad,” James said, quietly. 

“And you?” Francis asked. His voice was still a bit unsteady, but he sounded better. 

James drew closer and commandeered the chair beside the bed. To his surprise, Francis didn’t scowl at this imposition. 

“Well enough,” James echoed. 

Francis’s eyes flickered shut a little sleepily, but still he murmured a second echo: “I’m glad,” Francis said, quietly. “I’d worried that I might have damaged that pretty face of yours.” James searched for the usual note of bitter criticism in Francis’s voice, but it was not there.

James felt his cheeks bloom red. 

“Do not fear, Francis,” he replied. “My jaw has taken harder hits before.”

But Francis did not look reassured. “I would not have wished that,” he said. “And again – I am sorry for it.” 

James nodded his acceptance. The moment spooled out between them and James decided to reach out and cut the thread. 

“I thought we might have a–” James searched for a word. “Well, a ‘second shot,’ perhaps.”

Francis’s brow furrowed. “A second shot? At what, James?”

James frowned. “At this ‘marriage’ thing.” 

Francis seemed a bit taken aback. “I’m afraid I don’t know exactly what you mean by that. A second ceremony?” 

“Whatever would be, for us, a fresh start.” 

Francis seemed quite sincere when he said, “If you wish it, James.” 

James nodded solemnly. “I do.”

“Then so be it,” Francis said. 

“I would always have had us be friends,” James confessed. “Though I am sorry that I did not always act so – you were not what I expected.”

Francis’s lip curled up, but no familiar sting came forth. “I did not expect friendship from you,” he admitted.

“Well, I would give it to you now, then,” James said. 

Francis laughed, softly and painfully. “We have done things backwards, haven’t we? Married first, and only friends after.”

James smiled, close-lipped. “Perhaps.” 

“James Ross and I, we spoke about this, once.” Francis gestured between the two of them, and then his mouth twisted. “I mean, about the idea of a ships-marriage. Between the two of us – myself and Ross.” 

James looked up sharply, surprised. “On what occasion? For you did not go through with it – but then, if you are already married, Francis, then that would explain–” 

“No,” Francis corrected, quickly. “No, we did not go through with it – the danger was behind us, anyway, there would not have been a purpose.” Francis sighed, and James almost imagined that he sounded regretful, or even longing, desirous. 

“There was one night,” Francis said, continuing, “when the Antarctic seas tried to push us right into the walls of ice, and through the night we fought the wind and waves to keep our two ships from crashing.” As Francis spoke, he ran a hand fondly over the hull of the ship beside him, perhaps absently, but James could see the unconscious comfort Francis had with _Terror_ , and felt some envy rise within him – whether for the ship or Francis, he couldn’t tell.

“Was this the night that you and Ross were separated?” James asked. 

Francis looked over at James, one brow raised in a silent question. 

“I heard something of it,” James admitted. 

“Grand, exaggerated tales, no doubt,” Francis grumbled, but there was no bitterness to it. 

“I used to think so,” James confessed. He ought to say more, he thought, but struggled with the task of reconciling the deep well of disappointment he’d had for Francis with the first springs of affection and respect that he could feel welling up within him now. “Anyway,” James said, instead. “Tell me your side of it? The plain, unvarnished truth, I’m sure.” 

Francis smiled, wryly. “Well, you have the right of it – we were separated by the seas, which took Ross and _Erebus_ away from me for what felt like days but we learned later was only hours. I could concentrate only on the ice shifting and crashing before _Terror_ ’s bow, and how to get us out and away, and then, once it had finally calmed, I realized we were alone, and _Erebus_ was nowhere to be seen.”

James saw that Francis’s eyes had closed, and so he allowed himself to look more deeply at Francis’s tired face. The man seemed weary, heavy with the memory of it all. 

Eventually, Francis continued. “It seemed like an entire week later when I finally spotted _Erebus_ on the horizon once more. Ross had been frantic with worry, certain that we’d sunk in the storm. And ever after that, both our hands trembled, and we thought it a sign that we should have wed.”

James watched Francis in silence, as his face softened and his tone became almost confessional. “We were never separated again – not until, well, not until we were back home in England, when nothing could ever have happened anyway.” 

Francis sighed. To James, he seemed suddenly very far away. James reached out and placed his fingers over Francis’s still-whole right hand. To James’s surprise, Francis turned his hand until their palms rested flat against each other. James could feel both their heartbeats, pulsing just out of rhythm. 

“Do you really think this will do any good, James?” Francis asked. “What could such a ritual really change?” 

James swallowed. “I don’t know, Francis, but I think we have to try.” 

Nodding, Francis seemed to allow his fingers to tangle with James’s – perhaps an unconscious movement, James thought. “You’re right – you and Blanky both,” Francis confessed. “He tried to tell me….” Francis trailed off. 

A small sound of curiosity left James’s lips without his permission. 

“–he tried to tell me that the ice was an imminent danger, and I wouldn’t listen,” Francis continued. He looked up from their joined hands directly into James’s eyes, then. “If we can’t fix this, James, we’ll have to walk out. We can’t risk waiting for full summer, even. Unless the pack releases us–”

“I know,” James said. “I’ve done the sums too – we have too few stores, and the strength of our ships – our men – is running out.”

Francis looked concerned, but did not move to release James’s hand. “But first, our new beginning, and whatever comes with it,” he promised.

“Yes,” James agreed, heart in his throat and trying desperately not to show it. “Our new beginning.”

– – –

**A week later, early February – the night preceding the first sunrise of 1848**

It had been decided that a fresh start really meant “a grand party” and “let’s throw in another ceremony of some sort for good measure.” 

James wasn’t really sure _how_ this had been decided, or _by whom_ , exactly, but since the wedding breakfast had been the only vaguely pleasant part of the last dismal attempt at a ceremony, James didn’t plan to complain. James had happily had a hand in the planning of this Carnivale, in fact – dredging up good old Sir John’s boxes of costumes and masks, and then helping other officers plan the construction of a grand castle of tents out on the ice, built from sail-cloth and spare beams until James suspected there was more of _Erebus_ scattered out on the pack than remained with the ship herself. 

But, well, that was a problem for Theseus, James thought.

In between consulting with Commander Little and Mr. Blanky and his own trusty Dundy about the upcoming event, James found himself often at Francis’s bedside. Francis had made more improvement over the last week than he appeared to have made in the preceding three. James didn’t dare take responsibility, but Francis _did_ always seem heartier and stronger when James left him than when James first arrived. The notion that Blanky had been right about the nature of their bond haunted James during his waking hours, and gave him strange and tempting dreams at night. 

It was perhaps these ever-present fantasies that led James to make so bold a choice of party attire. 

Many of the men and officers wore amusing handmade costumes; others wore their best civilian-clothes; still others wore dress uniforms. But James’s eye had caught on a glimpse of shimmering white fabric at the bottom of one of the costume-chests. Perhaps it had been intended for a theatrical, some stage-play which included a young bride. When James had pulled the garment carefully from its wrapping-papers, anyway, it had seemed as perfect a wedding-dress as any James had ever seen.

James had hoped that Dundy might talk him out of what he worried was foolishness, but Dundy had only laughed and stroked the fabric and told James it would look well on him. 

And so James found himself standing atop one of the side-stages, watching his crew and Francis’s make revelry around him, as the long white dress swept about his legs and teased up around his shoulders. James shivered a little – there was only so much warmth that could be trapped inside canvas walls and within the furs wrapped around Jame’s shoulders – but he warmed somewhat as he swayed to the music, a sweet (if boisterous) song led, surprisingly, by Lieutenant Irving. 

Despite the cold, James felt somewhat better than he had the past several weeks, ever since he’d noticed his old war-wounds beginning to reopen. Bridgens had helped him bandage them tightly for tonight, but James still found himself running his hands over the panels of his gown, expecting to find blood stains seeping through the fine cloth. The garment was as pristine and white as it had been when he’d found it, however, despite his fears. 

Looking out into the crowd, James saw pairs of men dancing and laughing. It seemed a joke to most – Dundy, dressed as a knight in shining armor, was offering a studiously polite hand to Thomas Jopson, who was trying in vain to cover up his laughter with a hand over his face; Mr. Hartnell was stumbling over the feet of Mr. Cowie, both of them giggling; Mr. Weekes was clapping enthusiastically while watching Mr. Morfin spin young Harry Goodsir with surprising grace. 

Out of the corner of his eye, however, James spotted his own steward, with his arms wrapped rather intimately around _Terror_ ’s foretop captain, Mr. Peglar. James smiled, glad that Bridgens seemed happy, free of the cares that usually burdened him. He deserved a moment to love, James thought – and to be loved in return, if the keen look in Peglar’s eyes was any indication. 

The night was indeed winding toward its end, James thought. As this notion crossed his mind, he heard Mr. Blanky let out a call for order, and the dance-music began to quiet into something slow and solemn. 

Blanky had agreed to take command of the more formal proceedings – much to Commander Little’s visible relief. This wasn’t a wedding, after all: whatever its faults, the first one had been legal in the eyes of God, as Lieutenant Irving had been quick to assert. This was to be more of an affirmation of commitment: a play at a more joyful ritual, out under the aurora and the starry sky, where all the men could see. 

James waited until Francis had joined Thomas Blanky atop the center stage, and only then did he make his way to the back of the tent, where Dundy was waiting for him. 

“Lost your dance partner already?” James teased – for Jopson, in his elegant black coat, was nowhere to be found. 

Dundy shook his head. “I couldn’t fill his dance card for the _whole_ night,” he said, nodding to where Commander Little was leading Jopson across the dance floor in a smooth waltz, his hand placed confidently on the steward’s hip. A shame, James thought – he’d been under the impression that Dundy had carried something of a flame for Edward Little, and now the commander seemed very intent upon Jopson: not nearly so obviously as Bridgens and his young man, perhaps, yet James could think of no other answer for the blissful, laughing smile on Little’s face. But when James turned back around, ready to offer some word of consolation, Dundy was smiling fondly at the two men as they danced. _Curious_. 

Appearing to shake himself out of his admiring reverie, Dundy offered his arm to James with a smirk. “Shall we, Jas?” he said. 

Primly, James placed his hand atop the fabric made to look like a knight’s chain-mail. But his smile broke through, despite his best efforts. “Lead on, sir,” he said through the mirth in his chest, and lifted his skirt up off the ice with his other hand. 

They proceeded through the assembled crowd, as all the dancers at last swirled to a halt. James kept his eyes fixed on the center stage, not quite daring to see the reactions of his men. Dundy led James chivalrously up the stairs, and then sunk back into the crowd, leaving James to face Francis, with strains of song still in his ears. 

James couldn’t quite place the tune. He wished he’d asked Irving what the musicians had planned to play. 

Behind them, Thomas Blanky cleared his throat. The music died away. In the starlit silence, James heard the words of the simple questions they’d decided upon in place of vows – something truer than the stilted words of the Book of Common Prayer, and yet less demanding, James and Francis had concluded with satisfaction. Still, they seemed more like vows, now, than James had anticipated. More real and binding, with Francis standing beside him, largely healed. Though he had tucked his wounded hand behind his back, and he remained sternly at attention in his dress uniform, there was something gentler about Francis, now, James thought. 

“Captain Crozier,” Blanky asked. “Do you promise to abide by this man, your husband and Second, in all things; to lead him as faithfully and carefully as you should lead your men; to listen always to his counsel; and to care for him through whatever dangers you may together face?” 

“I do.”

James tried to read Francis’s voice, but became lost in the way he bit his lip afterwards, and almost missed the beginning of the questions directed to him. 

“And Captain Fitzjames,” Blanky continued. “Do you agree to hold to this man, your husband and First, in all things; to advise him thoughtfully; to ensure his judgement for your crew’s benefit and for his; and to care for him through whatever dangers you may together face?” 

“I do,” James promised. 

Blanky nodded at Francis, who seemed to have become distracted by something in James’s vicinity. James worried that the white dress had been a step too far. 

But Francis rallied, and lifted up his good hand, palm up. James placed his own hand on top; under his fingers, he could feel a slight tremor, but Francis was now looking at him with a terrible earnestness, so James said nothing. Francis then lifted the ring that, James had heard, had been generously donated by Alexander MacDonald; an old family heirloom he kept with his personals but had been happy to offer it for this purpose when Thomas Blanky had asked, apparently. 

“With this ring,” Francis said firmly, “I thee wed.” The golden band was surprisingly warm as Francis slid it onto James’s finger, and, when it settled against his hand, it felt heavy; even after James withdrew his hand, he could feel the ring pressing meaningfully against his skin. 

James lifted his own palm in return, and withdrew another ring from a pocket in his fur coat, hastily warming it with his palm so the cold would not bite at Francis’s finger. This band had once belonged to Mr. Weekes – a widower, the carpenter had said, when he’d told James that he was glad the ring could bless a new marriage. 

“With this ring, I thee wed,” James echoed back, as he slid this ring onto Francis’s finger – it had been too big on himself, but it seemed to fit as well on Francis as if it had been made with him in mind. James had to steady himself in his boots, then, for something in his knees shuddered, out of his control. 

“Now, you may kiss the bride,” Blanky said with a mischievous grin. James looked at him in shock – this addition had not been agreed upon: nor, indeed, the irreverent wording of it. But Francis, with his good hand still grasped in James’s own fingers, pulled James close. 

“Might I?” Francis whispered. 

James swallowed, feeling a chill run along his bare shoulders. “You may.”

Francis stepped even closer, and James allowed his head to dip down ever so slightly, so that Francis might reach his lips. James felt Francis’s mouth, warm upon his own, for a single lovely second, and then the ice beneath James’s feet buckled. 

In a panic, James gripped Francis’s arms, but this was no tempest like before. The pack swayed beneath them, surely, but it felt almost like the deck of a ship at sea, shifting steadily back and forth with the waves. James looked up and caught Francis’s tender glance.

Suddenly, a warm blaze seemed to glow around Francis, painting his hair golden and lighting up the gentle, confused smile that graced his lips. James wondered at it, before realizing, belatedly, that first light had come at last. The weak new sunlight glimmered on the horizon, but after so prolonged an absence, it warmed James to his bones and seemed to brighten their tent-palace as though it were lit by a bonfire, throwing long shadows over the dingy corners, hiding all imperfections. 

“James?” Francis asked, quietly. James only barely caught the name over a roaring of which he had only then become aware – the cheers and happy shouts of the men around them. 

“At last,” James breathed out on a grin. He looked around once more and saw that he and Francis had been happily ignored in favor of the men and officers gazing into the morning light, faces alit with joy. 

Amongst all the good cheer, Francis still seemed reserved, his brows lifted in slight concern at James, and his smile seeming tentative. James released his firm grip on Francis’s upper arm, and lifted one shy hand to his cheek.

“A fresh start?” James asked. Francis answered him with a chaste kiss that lingered on James’s lips long after they’d separated to join their crews in appreciating the brief light of first day.


	7. A Long Hard Look at Ourselves

**Chapter 7: A Long Hard Look at Ourselves**

_despite the sun’s sought-for return  
no further leads could be discerned   
the ice still held them in its jaws   
and thus there were no signs of thaw_

– – –

**John Bridgens – A few weeks after the first sunrise, late February of 1848**

John Bridgens had just finished refilling his captain’s tea for the evening, and was about to quietly step out of the captain’s quarters, when a quiet cough held him back. 

“Mr. Bridgens, will you please come sit with me?” the captain asked.

“Sir?” Bridgens asked, confused. 

Captain Fitzjames was always a warm and genial commanding officer, but never the type to loosen formalities, at least not as far as John Bridgens was concerned. 

“Please, sit,” the captain repeated, pulling out the desk chair and offering it to Bridgens. 

Bridgens settled himself in the chair, still upright and vigilant, as his captain took a seat on the bed, opposite. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” he asked. 

“I have a rather… well, a rather delicate question for you.” 

Bridgens frowned. “You have my confidence, of course, sir.” 

Captain Fitzjames clasped and unclasped his long fingers. Bridgens had seen him fidget in such a way at dinners, before – more often early in the voyage, when _Erebus_ still sailed through smooth waters relatively clear of ice, and most often of all when Captain Crozier had been compelled to join the dinner party – but Fitzjames had never worried at his own hands in such a way around Bridgens, whom few strove to impress. 

“It’s about– well, it’s about Captain Crozier,” Fitzjames admitted. 

Bridgens nodded. This was unsurprising – the two captains had grown closer since the avalanche incident and then Carnivale. The slow melting of the ice between them meant that Crozier played a much bigger role in Fitzjames’s life of late, and, as a result, had played a bigger role in Bridgens’s life as well. 

It had honestly been concerning how little time Crozier had spent with Fitzjames before that, married though they had been even then. Bridgens had been surprised and more than a little worried when Fitzjames had wandered back to _Erebus_ in the early hours of the morning after the first wedding. He’d looked tired and worn, and waved off Bridgens’s help with undressing, which was terribly unlike him. Bridgens hadn’t seen Captain Crozier on _Erebus_ at all, after that. 

But now Fitzjames had been spending his evenings on _Terror_ , at first tending to Crozier’s injuries, and then planning the Carnivale. When Fitzjames returned to _Erebus_ after these late nights, his mouth was full of stories of Crozier that spilled out into Bridgens’s patient ears. 

“Yes, sir?” Bridgens said encouragingly. 

“It’s just that – Bridgens, my dear man, I don’t want to alarm you, but I thought that you, in particular, might be able to help with this matter, and I know that I have your discretion…” 

Bridgens began to grow somewhat concerned. 

Fitzjames, still looking at the floor as he twisted his fingers nervously, did not seem to notice. Instead, he continued in this worrisome vein, “… and I must reassure you that, of course, you have my discretion as well. You and Mr. Peglar both.” 

“Sir–” Bridgens blurted out, a thousand false denials ready upon his tongue. If need be, there was always the simple lie that Bridgens had been the seducer, that he had coerced Henry – the same lie that had brought the lashes down on Bridgens’s back, many years ago, when he’d thought it noble to throw himself on the proverbial sword for another young sailor, but that young man hadn’t seen things the same way, hadn’t wanted Bridgens the same way after. Now, it didn’t much matter: if it could protect Henry, Bridgens would produce any lie necessary, and swear it true. 

But Fitzjames held up a gentling hand. “Please,” he said, “I didn’t want to worry you, Bridgens. I promise that you and your Mr. Peglar will not suffer any punishment on my ship – nor, I suspect, on _Terror_ , though I think discretion is the watch-word, there, just for now.”

Bridgens realized that he was trembling only when Fitzjames placed a careful hand over his. 

“Bridgens,” Fitzjames said, his voice concerned, “You are safe–” at that word, Fitzjames laughed darkly, “–or at least, you are as safe as any man on this boat. You have my word no harm will come to you from this. Good God, how could I condemn you or Mr. Peglar for that, when Crozier and I have been married?” 

“That is it, precisely, sir,” Bridgens said, shakily. “You are _married_. It may be unorthodox, but your union with Captain Crozier is sanctioned, permitted.” 

Fitzjames laughed again – not cruelly, Bridgens thought, but almost as though he were the one with a reason to be nervous. “And if I told you that I have had… well, ‘unions’ that were sanctioned by no congregation of sailors?” Fitzjames said. “Bridgens, I swear to you: you have nothing to fear from me, and never have, and never will.” 

Bridgens took a deep breath. “I do appreciate that, sir.”

“And you needn’t worry that you or Mr. Peglar have been marked out for this by others – you really have been very circumspect.” 

That wasn’t as comforting to Bridgens as he suspected his captain thought it might be. Still, Bridgens was desperate to turn the conversation as far from his Henry as possible, and decided not to question how Fitzjames had discovered this truth. 

“Might I ask, sir,” Bridgens said, “what this has to do with Captain Crozier? If indeed – as I hope I may assume – you have not shared this with the captain.” 

Fitzjames cleared his throat, and looked away once more. “Well, Bridgens, I’d just hoped that, since you also have experience in these matters, you might be able to advise me?” Fitzjames seemed to realize what he’d implied. “I only meant – because I know that you advised Mr. Blanky on the history of ships-marriages. Is there something we’ve missed, somehow?” 

It took all of Bridgens’s long years of fellow sailors’ taunts not to blush bright at Captain Fitzjames’s words. “Something you’ve missed, sir?” he asked. “You don’t mean with regards to…” Bridgens couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. 

Agonizingly, Fitzjames nodded, but said nothing else. 

Bridgens began, “I really don’t know how I can–”

Bridgens took it as a sign of his captain’s anxiety when Fitzjames cut in before Bridgens could finish. Captain Fitzjames was never impolite without cause, and never before to Bridgens. 

“–it’s just that,” Fitzjames said in a rush, “I’d thought, before, that we’d done everything needed to complete the ritual – I thought we’d given it our best shot. But evidently we missed something, because that awful night on _Terror_ , I could feel it, when we touched hands. And then again – at Carnivale. It was like a rush of heat… a spark, perhaps.”

Bridgens was almost tempted to say something impertinent along the lines of the fact that this was merely what it felt like to touch someone about whom one cared deeply. The voice in his head that suggested this sounded quite a bit like the unfortunate departed doctor, Stephen Stanley, however, so he resisted. 

Instead, Bridgens merely nodded. The ice had seemed to respond to Fitzjames and Crozier’s bond, after all. Perhaps Captain Fitzjames really _had_ felt something outside the realms of Bridgens’s experience. 

“So I’d just hoped,” Fitzjames continued, “that maybe we did… something… very slightly incorrect, and now it could be fixed, rather.” 

Bridgens caved. “Sir, do you mean to say that your marital relations were not completed?” 

Fitzjames cringed. “That’s just it, though – what does… well, ‘completion’ look like, in this context?” 

Bridgens, shocked to silence, must have visibly winced, because Fitzjames quickly stumbled through an explanation, “I mean to say, for the sake of the ritual, how were we meant to go about it? Crozier didn’t even want to– so I didn’t think it right to press. We… well, we kept it very short, efficient. And now I wonder if that might not have been enough.” 

Bridgens gathered the remaining scraps of his courage and dignity and asked, very bluntly, “Do you mean to say that you accomplished the consummation by hand alone, and not through a full union?” 

Fitzjames looked both mortified and relieved as he nodded. 

Bridgens struggled for a moment before answering, “I do wonder, captain, whether there might not be some other way to fulfill the requirements of the ritual. There is more to marriage than consummation, after all. Perhaps other small acts of symbolic union might help – though I confess that I feel as though I do not know enough to advise you fully on this, sir.”

“Symbolic union, Bridgens?” Fitzjames asked. 

“Indications of your commitment, rather,” Bridgens clarified. “I have noticed – pardon me – that you and Captain Crozier do not spend the night on the same ship. If you were to be married, well, traditionally, then you might be expected to sleep in the same home, representing your shared household. Perhaps the workings of this magic expect the same thing: that you rest together, both on _Erebus_ and on _Terror_.” 

“It’s not as though either of our quarters are intended for a married couple,” Fitzjames countered, but his voice sounded thoughtful. 

“That could be fixed,” Bridgens suggested. “I’m certain Mr. Weekes would be happy to construct a larger bed for your cabin.” 

Fitzjames waved it away. “No, but I take your meaning, Bridgens. We might try something like that. It might work.” Fitzjames looked as though some doubt remained in his mind. 

“It might,” Bridgens allowed. “There are other small things that you could try, as well. And if not, then…” Bridgens pretended, for a second, that this was not the strangest conversation he’d ever had. “Well, then, perhaps a more thorough consummation could not hurt.” A poor choice of words, Bridgens realized, as soon as he’d said it. 

But Fitzjames did not seem as horrified by the prospect of a full union, now, as Bridgens had feared. In fact, if Bridgens didn’t know better, he’d say Fitzjames appeared almost eager as he asked, “Do you think that might work – I mean, in the course of your studies, has this been, well, discussed?” 

Bridgens wondered what Fitzjames thought Bridgens had done that counted as “studies,” and what types of books, exactly, Fitzjames imagined Bridgens made a habit of reading. 

“I do think it may perhaps be a factor,” Bridgens admitted. “You have–” Bridgens paused, but it was too late to stop now, what with Fitzjames’s whole attention focused upon him. “You have… you are familiar with the act itself, yes?” 

Fitzjames smothered something that might have started out as a bitter laugh. “I am familiar,” he said, after he’d gathered himself. “I meant only to ask if there would be some precedent, not to seem to take a prurient interest.” 

Bridgens’s spine stiffened. “I apologize, sir,” he said, concerned that he’d leaned too much on his captain’s leniency. 

This time, however, Fitzjames caught the change. “No–” he said, forehead creased, “No, Bridgens, you mistake me. I do not mean to censure you – you’ve been a great help.” Fitzjames knuckled his brow as he looked for words. “Only – I don’t know how what I’ve… well, how what I’ve done in the past might be made to feel like the sort of thing appropriate between a man and…” Fitzjames stuttered to a halt. “You see my problem, don’t you, Bridgens? I don’t know _how_ one is supposed to be married. I know the act, but I don’t know the feelings behind it, between man and woman, let alone between man and man.” 

The knot of worry and shame in Bridgens’s chest loosened a little. “If I may, sir, perhaps if you offered up some of these thoughts to Captain Crozier, you might be able to find a companionship that would foster a more… _marital_ type of harmony. I know that you two have been able to put past grievances aside in favor of friendship – this would only be the next step, one might say. I have found – well, even though I am not now, and will never be, married – I have found that honesty and openness have allowed for more love to grow, rather than simple prurience, as you say.” 

Fitzjames raised a brow, curiously. “Do you think that would help? With the ice, I mean.” 

Bridgens realized that he had forgotten exactly what it was they were discussing – that he had forgotten himself, and had forgotten the usual walls he put up for the sake of safety. But Fitzjames did not seem likely to rebuke him for his words, so he continued. “I’m not sure about the ice, sir, but if you speak openly with Captain Crozier about your worries, you can offer him a chance to lean upon you in return. You can figure out these things – your marriage – together. I do think it would help us all to know that our captains trust each other. Whatever the outcome, physically speaking – apologies, sir, I meant the ice – it will be better if there is truthfulness between you and your–” it shocked Bridgens to say the word, still: “–husband.” 

“I don’t doubt you’re right, Bridgens,” Fitzjames said, “as always. I will think on it, I promise.” 

Bridgens could tell that his captain was done with the topic, and moved on to safer things. “We may still search through some other options to reinforce the power your union has had already – with your permission, of course, sir.” Bridgens added, “I’ll do some reading on historical precedent and return to you with my findings?” 

Fitzjames nodded, seeming relieved. “Thank you, Bridgens. I knew I could count on you in this matter.” 

“I’m glad you asked me, sir,” Bridgens admitted. “You’re a good captain, if I may say. I’m happy to help as I’m able.” 

Confessions over, Bridgens gratefully excused himself from the captain’s quarters and allowed himself a moment of standing quietly against the wall, trying to internalize what had just happened. He briefly contemplated writing out a message for Henry – in their code, of course – to try to settle his thoughts, before dismissing the idea as self-indulgent and, worse, a violation of his captains’ privacy. 

Instead, Bridgens wandered toward the Great Cabin. Books had always steered him well in the past; hopefully they would guide him into a safer harbor here as well. 

– – –

**During the early hours of the next day**

Bridgens had settled in his own bunk, where he was far more comfortable reading than in the library itself or anywhere in officers’ territory. He didn’t begrudge Edmund Hoar or any of his other fellow stewards the pleasure of sitting in the Great Cabin and perusing the shelves – it wasn’t that Bridgens didn’t think his fellow stewards deserved the same chance to read as anyone – but he could hardly feel comfortable reading there himself. So Bridgens gathered a few volumes to supplement his own collection and closeted himself in his quarters for the few short hours before he would be called to attend on the captain and Lieutenant Le Vesconte. 

So it was that Bridgens had delved deep into a chapter of a philosophical treatise by Cicero on the futility of omens, when he was pulled out of his reading by a quiet knock on the doorjamb. 

Bridgens quickly straightened and stood and moved to pull back the curtain.

“Mr. Blanky,” Bridgens said in greeting, hiding his surprise. “How may I help you?” 

“Hope I didn’t wake you, Mr. Bridgens,” Mr. Blanky said, voice a little gruff with exhaustion, Bridgens thought. There was snow in his beard, as well. 

“Not at all, sir, I was just reading.” 

“I had heard,” Blanky said, “that you had a conversation with Captain Fitzjames. About some matters that might concern Captain Crozier.” 

“Word travels worryingly fast on these ships,” Bridgens remarked. It was all he could do not to fret about who had overheard him speaking to Captain Fitzjames. And they had been talking about Henry – Bridgens’s heart raced. “I do hope this hasn’t reached any ears it shouldn’t.” 

Blanky laughed. “Hasn’t that been our problem all along?” 

An answering grin flashed across Bridgens’s face. “I suppose so, sir. Still – might I be of use in some way?” 

“Aye, I was hoping you might have some suggestions for ways that Captain Crozier might, well, shore up the marriage – its power with the ice and the ships, that is. Seems to be goin’ mostly well in other respects, if a bit slower than one might expect,” Blanky said. 

Blanky’s brashness never seemed to knock Bridgens any less off balance. If he’d known someone like Blanky as a young sailor, he thought, the two of them might have become fast friends, before circumstances had drummed caution and decorum into Bridgens with punishing force. 

“That’s actually what I’m chasing at this moment,” Bridgens said. 

“Ah,” Blanky replied, a conspiratorial look in his eye. “Any old stories about that, as you’ve found?” 

“Not much yet,” Bridgens admitted. “Though I have a few ideas about what we’ve seen so far – the touching of hands might be significant, which may explain why the disaster on _Terror_ came to a halt when and how it did… and the ships-marriages I’ve found seemed mainly to be timed to the important events of the celestial calendar, which could be why we felt such an impact upon the ice during Carnivale, since it fell on first light, I mean.” 

Blanky appeared to ponder this. “Time and contact then,” he mused. “Perhaps we might encourage them to hold hands more often? Or if they kissed in a specific place–”

Bridgens saw an opportunity to divert this train of thought onto another track and quickly took it, agreeing, “–place may also be significant. I think the ice cracked at Carnivale because we’d taken so many of the ships’ beams and sails out onto the pack, almost as though we could make the ice into a ship in its own right. So when the captains renewed their vows, essentially, the ice buckled, trying to serve as a ship might.” 

Blanky nodded, looking as though he had far more ideas, each more terrifying to Bridgens than the last. “So a planned ritual, timed precisely, here on board the ships…” Blanky began, looking to Bridgens for confirmation. 

“I have hope I’ll find something more concrete in here,” Bridgens tapped the cover of his current volume, _On Divination_. “Some of the ancient Romans were quite skeptical about signs and portents, and they read the stars as accurately as one could wish. If there’s aught about ships-marriages or marriage rites in here, it’ll be worth trying, I suspect.” 

“I’ll just leave you to your books, then–” Blanky said. “Oh, and I’ve brought Mr. Peglar along with me. He’s just gettin’ some hot tea from Mr. Wall to warm himself up – shall I find him and send him along to you? To help you _read_ , o’ course.” 

Bridgens blushed brightly, and nodded. Henry might be a help, or he might be a distraction, but it didn’t matter. Bridgens wouldn’t waste any of the brief span Henry had on _Erebus_ being apart from him. “Thank you,” he said, quietly. If Blanky _knew_ , and didn’t mind…

Mr. Blanky grinned. “Happy to help,” he teased, and closed the curtain behind him.


	8. An Elaborate Plan Not to Belong Anywhere

**Chapter 8: An Elaborate Plan Not to Belong Anywhere**

_in desperate straits, the men grew grim  
they thought to doubt their captains’ whims  
and drove the both to seek a cure  
so that, through spells, their ships endure_

Editorial note: There is substantial scholarly debate about what is meant, in this stanza, by “spells,” (McCorristine 2016 collects the relevant bibliography, pgs. 75-91) although some historians have observed that, since the origins of these lyrics are so difficult to trace, this may be merely fantasy, not grounded in any particular supernatural tradition or belief.

– – –

**Francis Crozier – around noon, the same day, late February of 1848**

Once Francis had wrapped up the morning’s short command meeting on _Terror_ , he began getting out his maps. Whether this power that he and James Fitzjames seemed to command could somehow be harnessed or not, they’d need to begin plotting possible courses: either, as Blanky had threatened back in December, for the long walk out, or, as Francis almost dared hope now, for sailing out and away, should the ice release them from its trap at last. As he pulled the papers from their drawers, Francis mused on the question of calling James over to join him, since James had not been needed for the brief meeting this morning, which was largely concerned with repairs on _Terror_. It dawned upon Francis with some surprise that, though there was no real purpose to call for James before he had a route to propose, Francis still longed to see the man, to ask him for reassurance, to hear his advice – as relatively untutored in navigating the region as he might be. Francis suspected that it would calm his nerves to have James near: and what an odd thought _that_ was. 

Francis had turned back to the table of the Great Cabin to begin rolling out the maps, when he realized that he was not alone. Tom Blanky had apparently lingered after the meeting had finished, for he now stood by the stove, rubbing the stiffness out of his almost-healed leg. 

Francis nodded a greeting. Blanky hummed back. 

“I was thinking,” Francis said, “we might send out a few more sledge-parties to look for leads. If James and I truly have some ability to combat the ice, we will need to be able to direct that power in the most useful… well, the most useful direction.” 

“Not a bad plan,” Blanky agreed. “But you may have to delegate that.” 

Footsteps sounded just outside the cabin door. 

“I’ve taken a bit of a liberty,” Blanky began. 

A word of concern or perhaps fond annoyance was halfway out of Francis’s mouth when the door to the Great Cabin opened and whatever Francis had planned to say died on his lips. James stood in the doorway, as though Francis’s thoughts had somehow summoned him. A step behind stood James’s steward, Mr. Bridgens – so rarely seen on _Terror_ , Francis thought, that it might even be the first time he’d ever set foot on _Erebus_ ’s sister-ship. 

“Hello, Francis,” James said, with a small smile. 

“James – what’s happening?” Francis asked. 

“Well–” James began, but when he trailed off into silence, Blanky broke in. 

“Mr. Bridgens and your James and I might have a plan,” Blanky said. “Recallin’ how the ice was at Carnivale, I asked Mr. Bridgens if there might be aught we could do to replicate results.” 

“Mr. Bridgens?” Francis asked, curious about the steward’s involvement. 

Bridgens bowed his head politely. “Aye, sir, Mr. Blanky has sought my advice on–” he paused, a half-second’s interruption, but something about it made Francis curious. “–a number of matters.” 

“And your expertise on this subject is?” Francis asked. 

“Bridgens is very well-read, and knowledgeable about the particulars of ships-marriage legends,” James said, a note of pride in his voice. 

Bridgens colored slightly but held himself perfectly upright. 

“Well, then,” Francis said. “Do tell us what you have in mind.”

To Francis’s immense embarrassment, most of Bridgens’s ideas involved various combinations of physical touch and a curious audience – both of which Francis had spent most of his life strenuously avoiding. James and Francis were instructed to hold hands while standing before the assembled crew for no apparent purpose, and, mortifyingly, they were directed to kiss while perched on the foretop, as a chorus of half-hearted clapping and assorted whistles echoed up from below. Francis was certain his authority with the crew was being undermined more swiftly than poor Captain William Bligh’s. 

After a particularly ridiculous concept that involved Francis clinging to the rigging – as well as James’s infamous high kick – Francis could bear it no longer. 

“Enough,” Francis said. “That’s enough, we’re not doing this anymore.” 

“I’m not sure this strategy has been fully thought out,” James said, half to Francis, half to Bridgens. Despite being out of breath from the high kicks and subsequent laughter, James sounded almost apologetic, though Francis wasn’t sure to which of them he might be apologizing. 

Nevertheless, Bridgens’s face fell, and Francis winced. 

“At least for today,” Francis amended. “Tom, Mr. Bridgens – you’re both dismissed.” 

– – –

After Bridgens and Blanky had been banished back to their respective tasks, Francis shut the door. Sinking down into his chair with a sigh of weariness, Francis scrubbed a hand over his eyes. 

When he blinked his eyes back open, he saw that James was leaning awkwardly against the sideboard, another shadow cast upon Francis’s bright solitude. 

But as Francis glanced again over his Second, his husband, he saw the lines of worry across James’s forehead, the unhappy set of his mouth, the worryingly slender lines of his waistcoat, accentuated by the fact that James stood stiff with apparent apprehension. How much of this was Francis’s fault, Francis’s apparent disinterest in all of Blanky’s extravagant suggestions? It wasn’t that Francis didn’t want to show that kind of affection – he had found himself so drawn to James, recently, that the idea of expressing the feelings that curdled, anxious, in his stomach no longer repelled him like it might once have. But the eyes of the crew had made him fretful and ashamed. How they must think him clumsy, ineffective, unworthy of James. 

Francis wanted to find some way to show James that his displeasure, his frustration, his discomfort – none of it was James’s fault. That if this was something James believed in, Francis was willing to perhaps press down his discomfort and give it another try. 

Another try – just like James had requested, when Francis was slowly healing, trying not to drown in his own guilt for the ruin he’d almost brought to all his men. His guilt over what he’d done to James…

“I would like to try something,” Francis announced. 

As he’d rather expected, James looked surprised. “Well then, speak it, Francis,” he said, managing to make the insubordinate command sound almost like a question. 

Francis stepped close, and lifted his left hand slowly and carefully – the hand with which he had struck James, the hand that had never fully healed and even now remained stiff and useless. James, with his eyes open wide, turned to present his high cheek to Francis, and frowned until the lines around his mouth were deep-grooved and his lashes lowered. With the softness of a breath, Francis brushed the back of his hand against James’s jaw once again, more a caress than a blow.

James’s eyes fluttered open. “Is this what you sought to try?” James asked, voice lowered too. 

“A half of it,” Francis admitted. “You are owed an apology – or rather, my hand must say its sorries to your cheek, as I have tried to say them to you, poor though my words have been.” 

“Perhaps your lips would speak more eloquently to my cheek than to myself,” James murmured. 

Francis blinked. “If you would wish for that,” he said, gently. 

James tipped his chin down ever so slightly, and Francis dutifully pressed a kiss to his jaw, where the skin was smooth and freshly-shaven and scented with something rich and warm and foreign, which Francis could not place. Francis followed the scent, trailing kisses down James’s neck. 

A strangled sound made its way out of James’s throat, and Francis stepped back, worried he’d gone too far. But James reached for him, and then his lips were on Francis’s lips and Francis gasped and pushed forward eagerly. James responded, opening his mouth – it was almost as though he intended to devour Francis, who could feel James’s hands settle on his hips, pulling him closer. Everything was heat and tempting movement and James’s questing tongue and Francis would have stayed in the moment forever if he could. 

James broke away with a gasp. “I–” he licked his lips. “I must return to _Erebus_. The sun is setting soon.”

“Must you?” Francis said, running his hands up James’s arms. 

James’s mouth hung part-way open, his hair mussed from its usual curls. He looked to Francis and his brow tightened as he gathered himself enough to speak. “I’m afraid I’ve given Dundy no notice of what’s been going on, nor is he prepared to retain his command without some further instruction.” Though his voice was crisp and clear, James swayed on his feet, but yet did not appear weary. 

“Of course,” Francis replied, trying not to let the disappointment show on his face. 

“I could return,” James said – a question. 

Francis nodded, “I had hoped–” 

It was too much to voice. 

But James smiled nonetheless. “Until tonight?’

“Until tonight,” Francis answered in fear and wonder. 

– – – 

That night, James snuck back aboard _Terror_ almost stealthily; Francis did not realize that he had arrived until there was a soft knock at the door of his own cabin. 

Francis slid open the door and was nearly swept away by the vision of James before him: his high cheeks were pink with cold, his dark hair was dusted with frost, and yet he was halfway out of his coat, showing that he wore little but shirtsleeves and a thin sweater beneath. 

Seeing Francis looking at him so, James grinned and asked teasingly, “Has your mind much changed?” 

“In no way,” said Francis. 

Ushering James inside, Francis’s hands went immediately to help James remove his coat and place it over the chair. Francis moved to undress him further, but found his fingers stopped by James’s large, elegant hands that themselves turned to Francis’s waistcoat buttons. Before Francis truly knew what had happened, his chest was partly bared to the chilly air, though James’s attentions kept him from feeling the cold much. 

“What would you like, Francis?” James asked, stooping to kiss a line down Francis’s chest and making his ribs ache with want. “What would please you?”

“What would please _you_?” Francis countered, as James sat upon the edge of his bed. 

“I cannot think to say,” James replied, but he smiled and gazed upward so beautifully as he said so that Francis was overcome.

Francis laughed softly. “Well, one of us must choose.” 

“Perhaps….” James began, then halted. 

“Perhaps?”  
“Perhaps we might, well… I thought that it might be worthwhile to consider – being joined, tonight.”

Francis would have blushed, had James not sounded so hesitating, so unconvinced, or had his words not been so worryingly formal. “What brought this on, James?”

James bowed his head, resting his brow against the side of Francis’s chest. “I hoped to be spared that question,” he muttered under his breath, and he then tilted his face up and said, more firmly, “I was contemplating what we might do, ourselves, to combat the ice.”

Francis gaped. “And you think – _that_ – would make a difference?” 

“When I mentioned it to Bridgens–”

“You spoke with _Bridgens_ about this?” Francis hissed, feeling uncomfortably exposed. He supposed that he’d rather picture James talking about Francis’s private business with the kindly and discreet steward than gossiping about such things with the departed Sir John – and Francis knew that such conversations had, in fact, happened in Sir John’s presence. Still, Francis thought, he’d rather not be the subject of any such talk at all.

James’s forehead furrowed, and his hands twisted in Francis’s bed-linens. “In as little detail as I could manage, I promise you, Francis. But we can rely on his discretion absolutely – he’s as trustworthy as your devoted Jopson.”

Francis wasn’t sure such a thing could be possible, and, furthermore, a number of questions plagued him: “But why, James?” he asked. 

James sighed. “I suspected – you remember, how, that first night, I pressed you–” Francis did not, in fact, remember any such thing, only the sight of James in his full dress uniform, slumped in a chair, suggesting to Francis that they each toss the other off. Francis had protested weakly, sure that it was a token suggestion from an entitled man raised to expect a wedding night, but had soon caved to James’s willing hands. It had not been a hardship, Francis thought, and he had certainly not felt _pressed_ , though he had perhaps felt empty, hollowed-out, after James had buttoned himself back up and left for _Erebus_ , unable to face even a night of Francis’s company, apparently. “–I wondered, then,” James continued, “what power a full union might have. I wanted another opinion, and good Bridgens was both most well-versed to advise me and also most able to help.”

“Able to help?” Francis echoed. 

“Well what with–” James bit his lip. “You must promise me you will not harm any man on my ship, Francis.”

“Of course?” Francis replied, utterly lost. 

James continued. “Or aboard your own.” 

“Now, James–”

“Not for an offense for which I refuse to enact any discipline on any man under my command.”

“Fine,” Francis agreed, still confused. 

James hummed, apparently satisfied. “Mr. Bridgens is – well, in a relationship not so very different from ours.”

“Mr. Bridgens is married?”

“Well, no,” James acknowledged, “but he has a young man he cares for very much and would be married to, I think, if it were possible.”

“And who is this young man?” Francis asked. 

James pursed his lips. “He will come to no harm from you? Bridgens was quite concerned for his safety.” 

Thinking back upon his brief past fumbles with other young sailors, hiding themselves so carefully from Captain Parry – and even Captain John Gore, for Francis had been young and foolish enough even then – and fearing always to be found out, Francis felt his heart beat in sympathy for a man like Bridgens, whose life – like Francis’s – _was_ the navy, but who could not seek companionship more safely, like Francis: ashore, with women, or here, with James, their high stations affording them the privacy and deference that had allowed tonight to happen. 

“He will come to no harm from me,” Francis vowed, and took up one of James’s hands to seal his promise. 

“Mr. Peglar, your foretop captain,” James answered.

“Ah,” Francis said, and pondered it. Henry Peglar seemed a very different man from scholarly old Mr. Bridgens, but Francis recalled a time or two when Peglar had showed surprising depths: a line of poetry spoken in a fond voice, a letter kept in a coat pocket and written in a language none of the other men could read. And certainly Peglar was steadfast and loyal, always the first up the rigging and a good leader despite his young age. It was only that young age itself that worried Francis – he had known young sailors who had been taken advantage of by those older than themselves. 

“It would be our responsibility to stop such things, perhaps,” Francis said, “if Peglar were unhappy with the arrangement?” 

“I would not worry on that,” James said. “If you had seen them at Carnivale, you would have thought Mr. Peglar a newlywed in his husband’s arms.” There was a soft smile in his voice. 

Francis nevertheless planned to check privately with his captain of the foretop; Peglar was one of Francis’s men, after all, and it was his responsibility to prevent abuses. Still, he thought James’s judgement on the matter to be trustworthy. 

“Then we shall wish them well,” Francis said. “As well as might be possible under these conditions.” 

James agreed, but his face turned stern and focused once more. “So, I spoke to Bridgens.”

Francis nodded, swallowing against the anxiety. 

James continued, “and Bridgens confirmed that it would do no harm to at least test the theory, that the ice might perhaps melt, if we were to– to… become of one flesh.” 

Cringing at the choice of words, Francis said, “I would not want you to think you must do such a thing for the sake of some small chance at our salvation.” A horrible thought came to Francis. What did any of James’s caresses mean, then? “I would not want you to do _anything_ on the vanishingly unlikely odds that it would save us.” Perhaps James was indeed foolhardy or uncaring enough to throw himself at Francis while swallowing his own disgust. The idea turned Francis’s stomach. 

James, however, still did not pull away from Francis. His hands had come up to caress Francis’s thighs, and he met Francis’s downward gaze. “I do not ask for that reason only,” James said. 

“James, I–” Francis said, turning away. James’s eyes wounded him. “I do not think that I could do that.”

“Then we do not have to,” James said. There was a strange note in his voice. “Please, Francis, look at me?”

Francis allowed himself to be turned back around by James’s clever fingers. 

“I _want_ to be with–” James began.

“I have never–” Francis confessed in the same moment.

Both of them fell silent.

“Do you mean–” Francis began. 

James swallowed, his hands falling away. “Yes, Francis. I am a strange and desperate creature and I want to do this for my own reasons, and I am sorry you have been bound to me and my desires. I will leave you – you may be rid of my madness for tonight at least.” 

“No–” Francis said, desperately. He reached for James’s hand, and felt himself slipping down to his knees to do so. “James, I want this – can you not tell?” 

James’s lips became a thin line. “You must not try to appease me.” 

“I want _you_ , James.” 

James’s breath came out in a sudden rush. 

“You want to do this?” 

Francis nodded. 

“Then take me.” 

Francis lifted a brow, an arch disguise for the way his heart was beating fast. 

Biting his lip, James looked down at Francis, still kneeling. “If you’ve never–” James said, “then it’s easier that way.” 

Francis wavered. “And you would– it would please you?” 

James nodded fervently. 

Lifting himself up to one knee so that he might be of a height with James, Francis reached out for James’s cheek once more. Hesitatingly, he pressed a kiss to the corner of James’s mouth, a test. James immediately captured Francis’s lips, and Francis returned his kiss with a hunger. He soon rose up to his feet, and, with his hands curled around James’s legs, encouraged James to lie more fully upon the small bed, but James resisted – if only long enough to make short work of Francis’s remaining clothes, and most of his own, though his shirt stayed around his strong shoulders, for Francis had become impatient and kissed him down onto the sheets before he could remove it. 

Francis found himself kneeling between James’s legs, in the dim light of the cabin’s last still-lit lantern, whose flickering glow danced over the planes of James’s chest. Beautiful as Francis thought James, it still sparked a frantic worry in Francis to see the places where James’s ribs pushed against his skin for want of food, or where thin scar-lines criss-crossed beside bullet holes.

With a hesitant hand, Francis drew a finger perpendicular across the parallel scars, but quickly drew away when James gasped. “Christ, I’m sorry,” he said, horror-struck. 

“They don’t hurt,” James said, quickly, though his voice did sound pained. “But they’ve–”

Francis waited patiently, stroking instead along the safe spaces of James’s hips. 

“–they’ve begun bleeding again, off and on.” 

“God, James.” 

“I know, I know.” 

“Does your Mr. Goodsir know? Or Doctor MacDonald?” 

James shook his head. 

When he pressed his lips to the same scars, Francis almost meant the kiss to be a punishment, though perhaps he only allowed himself such viciousness because James had said the wounds did not pain him. Still, he cursed himself when he heard James groan, and began to shift away, but James drew him back. “No–” James gasped. “Do that again – the pain, it went away.” 

“You said they did not hurt!” Francis exclaimed, betrayed. 

“Not when you do that!” James said with fervor.

Francis shook his head. “I won’t hurt you, damn it, James.” 

“You aren’t,” James said swiftly, sounding earnest. 

Francis let himself be pushed back down to James’s chest, and once more set his mouth against the claw-marks. Though James bucked against his lips, James’s strong hands trailed through his hair and kept his head anchored against the thin skin that covered those precious ribs. 

After several minutes of his attentions given entirely to the scars scattered across James’s torso, Francis looked up and saw James watching him eagerly, his eyes wide and dark. 

Francis simply _had_ to kiss him again – he had no choice. James’s lips opened once more beneath his own, and James took him apart until Francis was nearly dizzy with need. Finally, they broke away, both breathing quickly. 

“Ready?” James asked. 

Francis nodded. 

James led him through what came next. 

It felt entirely different from what they had done before, during that hideously awkward night after the wedding. Not so much because this time they were fully joined, Francis having worked himself slowly in, following James’s breathless directions and encouragement – though that was different, the sensation startling and new – but more because Francis now had the courage to watch James’s face as they moved together, to take in the emotions playing across his lovely, fine features and to memorize each new sound when James gasped and moaned and begged. 

At last, Francis felt his own end approaching and tried to warn James, but James merely kissed Francis eagerly and held Francis close as he carried them both over the edge. 

When the marvelous shivers had shuddered their way out of Francis’s limbs, he carefully lay himself down, and gathered one of James’s legs to rest between his own, loath to let him go. 

James made a small, sleepy noise against Francis’s brow, and Francis looked up to see the lines of his face crease in a shallow smile. “Alright, James?” he asked, tentative. 

But James, when he opened his eyes, set his sight instantly upon Francis’s face and grinned until the warm brown of his eyes was almost fully hidden. “Perfectly alright, Francis,” he whispered, and kissed in vain in Francis’s general direction, until Francis took pity on him and claimed his lips once more in a lovely, weary clasp, almost more a shared breath than a kiss. Their tired enthusiasm turned to brief passion and desperation before they once more parted and fell back beside each other, panting. 

Running a hand up James’s tragically still-clad arm, Francis felt his warmth through his thin shirt-sleeve. Gently, he turned James over to face him and traced the line of his jaw with a loving finger. James smiled, and his eyes flickered shut. 

“To bed?” Francis asked. 

James produced a peal of soft, happy laughter. “Are we not already in bed, Francis?”

Francis lowered his chin, acknowledging the error graciously. “To sleep, then?”

“To sleep,” James said, ever-so-serious. Francis kissed his nose, and he smiled again. At last, Francis turned and put out the lantern, before returning to James’s loose and lovely embrace. 

Francis was almost asleep when a small sound roused him; James’s whisper of “Francis?” drifted over from the other side of the pillow and into Francis’s ear. 

In the near-complete darkness of the ship, wrapped so unmoving as it was in the still-overlong Arctic night, Francis could not make out James’s features. “Yes, James?” he asked – and, when no answer seemed forthcoming, prompted further, “What is it?” 

But James’s fancy must have turned, for he said no more and only brought Francis’s injured hand to his lips and held it there, his breath warming the palm until Francis slipped away to sleep. 

– – –

The next morning, the ice had not, in fact, been changed at all – as Francis had rather suspected – and so the public rounds of “efforts to resolve the ice issue” began again. To Francis’s deep displeasure, the matter of planning routes for the sledge-parties had, in fact, been delegated to Commander Little and Lieutenant Hodgson, and Francis was instead employed in more arcane rituals of his crew’s devious invention. 

This wasn’t the agony it had been the previous day, however. When commanded to stand directly under the path of the weak February sunlight and accomplish another kiss, Francis managed to focus on James, and, though they burst into laughter together and ruined Mr. Bridgens’s careful timing, Francis found he was no longer full of dread and embarrassment. 

When at last they did manage to time their kiss to the specifications, a small shudder wracked _Terror_ and set James stumbling into Francis, who caught him as deftly as he could manage. 

“What on _earth_ was that?” Francis asked. 

Hartnell, who had been tasked with watching from high up the main mast along with Peglar, shouted down to the officers below, “The ice, sir – it’s cracked! Near the stern!” 

Francis, gripping James’s elbows to keep him steady, stood unbelieving as a cheer rose up around them. 

“Maybe it’s because you mean it, this time?” James whispered, as he brought them discreetly cheek to cheek. 

Francis hid his smile against the rough collar of James’s coat. “Perhaps.” 

James pressed them together once more, his kiss just the right side of violent. Their breath mingled and Francis sunk into James’s embrace for just a moment, before he felt the ice rumble once more, and then there was a sickening drop. 

Waves of icy water splashed aboard, washing across _Terror_ ’s deck and pooling around Francis’s boots. Francis had just released a relieved sigh, thinking that the spell had worked marvelously, when the ship jolted much more sharply, as if cast down from a great height. 

A frightful scream echoed from the main mast, and Francis looked up to see a figure plummeting downward. There was no time – only a sickening crash of bones against the boards of the deck and then everything sped up. 

Francis found himself kneeling beside the man who lay crumpled on the planks. James, only a step behind him, turned the sailor onto his back, and Francis was horrified to realize it was Henry Peglar – fallen from the main mast. His eyes were closed, but Francis, gripping his wrist, felt a pulse beating erratically under his fingers. A pool of blood began to seep out from beneath Peglar’s body. 

Sensing others crowding around them, Francis roared, “Get the doctor!” 

Most of the crowd scattered, but not all – Francis glanced back to see Bridgens falling to his knees beside Francis, nearly pushing Francis over in his haste to get to closer to Peglar, to take up the hand where Francis had found a heartbeat. 

Through the haze of command and concern for his men, Francis heard Bridgens whispering frantically over Peglar’s body, but he heard none of the words. The seconds stretched out, helpless, until at last Francis looked up from Bridgens at his side to see Doctor MacDonald, quickly and efficiently examining Peglar’s wounds. 

“Take him below – carefully!” MacDonald ordered, gesturing for aid from Commander Little and Tom Hartnell, who still stood nearby. But before either could approach, Bridgens had lifted Peglar tenderly into his arms and held him up with no apparent effort. 

MacDonald accepted the change of plans smoothly, ushering Bridgens belowdecks. Francis trailed behind, feeling as useless as Hartnell looked while he worried his cap between his gloved hands, until he found himself standing just outside _Terror_ ’s sickroom as MacDonald slid shut the door. 

– – – 

After far too many anxious minutes, the sick-room door opened at last. MacDonald stepped out, rubbing blood off of his hands with a ragged cloth. 

“He’s in remarkably good condition, all things considered,” MacDonald announced. “You can come in, now.” 

Francis got through MacDonald’s report of the setting of broken bones and of checking for more serious damage by watching James fidget out of the corner of his eye. He could not bear to look directly at the doctor or his patient, or at Mr. Bridgens who had never once left Mr. Peglar’s side. 

“So really, it’s only the broken ribs, and the fracture to his arm, that have me worried. He should sleep for some time now,” Doctor MacDonald said, “though he ought to be woken if possible, in a few hours; I’m not quite certain about the condition of his head trauma. If he’s lucid when he wakes, I’ll have great hopes for his recovery.” 

Francis knew what these words, and their tone of finality meant – essential personnel only. Indeed, James stood up from the chair he had commandeered, and stepped closer to Francis, as if ready to depart. 

Bridgens, too, rose from the other sick-room chair, which had been pulled close to the berth where Mr. Peglar lay, his chest and scalp swathed in bandages. But Bridgens seemed unwilling or unable to step away from Peglar – in fact, his hand never left Peglar’s arm. 

“You’ll be staying here, of course, Mr. Bridgens,” James said. “Our good MacDonald will need an assistant, I think.” 

Bridgens looked desperately grateful. “Thank you, sir. You’ll manage with Mr. Hoar?” 

“Of course,” James replied and then put a gentle hand on Francis’s elbow. Cursing himself, Francis allowed James to lead him away. He did not deserve James’s comfort in the wake of this sudden disaster, but, selfishly, he would covet the scraps of it nonetheless. 

– – –

**A week later – the end of February, 1848**

They’d made arrangements to return to _Erebus_ ; it was cruel to leave Dundy so very long without anyone but the mates and masters to relieve his command, James had told Francis, and besides, if they wanted any hope of safely extending the range of their control over the ice, they ought to spend their nights on both ships, not only _Terror_. For, in fact, _Terror_ now floated in her own little sea of dark ocean, a strange pool amidst the white expanse of the pack. It would have cheered Francis, had he been able to forget the cost of this small victory. And yet _Erebus_ remained locked fast in its ring of frozen peaks, so Francis had settled the burden of _Terror_ ’s command onto a restless Edward Little and then set off, with James, across the ice. 

James had seemed ill at ease the past several days, gazing over at the horizon during the day, and lying still and silent as Francis drifted off to sleep at night. Francis’s own spirits had risen somewhat as Peglar’s condition continued to show rapid improvement – he had woken as lucid as Doctor MacDonald had hoped, and remained so – but all of Francis’s guilt and melancholy might as well have been poured directly into James. 

Now, as they walked together across the ridged ice under the starlight, James, usually so ready with a story, was silent.

Francis looked toward James, taking in his snow-dusted greatcoat, and bitten lips. “Alright, James,” he said. “Tell me, what thoughts weigh on you?” 

James sighed, and walked several paces more before falling behind a step.

“Perhaps it’s my fault, somehow,” James said, at last. 

“The ice?” Francis asked, allowing himself a backward glance in James’s direction. “How on earth should it be your fault, James?”

“I’ve not been truthful with you, Francis.” 

Francis turned fully around to look at James, who stood, tall and slender and elegant – though still shivering slightly – on the surface of the ice. A thousand nightmares of things past spun through Francis’s mind: hearing Sophia’s voice tell him ‘no,’ and again ‘no,’ as her smile twisted sadly; the fear Francis held of his own feelings for James Clark Ross; the sinking feeling in Francis’s stomach all the way home from the Antarctic; the appalling image of James Fitzjames hearing all of these things and laughing; the growing alarm of realizing that James made Francis’s heart beat fast – and not with anger; the worry that James had broken his vows because Francis was simply too horrid to bear as a husband – and who would blame James for looking elsewhere? 

No one ever wanted to stay with Francis forever. Why would Francis expect that James, this James would be different?

“It’s alright,” Francis said, trying to hide the heaviness in his voice. “It would be unjust of me to expect so much from you when I’ve offered so little in return.” 

James looked confused. “No– Francis, that’s not true, that’s not what I– what did you think I meant?”

Francis tried to put words to his thoughts for a moment, but before he could arrive at some version of _I’ll understand if you’re leaving me for Le Vesconte, but perhaps wait until we’re out of the ice to do so?_ that didn’t also say, _I wish you hadn’t agreed to all this and then been so forgiving and so brave and so handsome in your white gown at Carnivale and so beautiful in my bed this last week that you almost made me believe that this could be real._

But James waved Francis’s open-mouthed silence away before he could voice any of that. “Never mind,” James said. “You have every right to expect that the man you married to save our ships would be a legitimate naval officer – and I’m not that. Francis, do you know how I was appointed to this expedition?” 

“No?” Francis replied, completely unsure what James was trying to say. 

James’s beautifully-cut jaw tightened as he held his head high. “I saved Sir John Barrow’s son from a scandal – in Singapore – I paid to have a very base matter settled. For that–” James laughed, without any humor, “–well, for that Barrow would have given me the full command, if the admiralty had permitted him.” 

Francis scoffed, then gentled himself. “That is a surplus of political luck, James – no more. No man goes far in the navy without a little luck.” 

“No–” James shook his head. “You don’t understand. Every commission I’ve ever had has been no more than luck and lies. I’m a fake, Francis – and my falsehoods may have brought us to ruin.” 

“James– James, I don’t know what you mean,” Francis said, drawing close.

But James barely seemed to hear. “All these rituals,” he continued. “All these exact details – the placement of a hand, the timing of a kiss – if such things matter, how can I ever play the part correct when a great lie sits at the center?” 

Francis reached out a hand and gripped at James’s sleeve. “Tell me what you mean, James, I beg you.”

James finally looked at him once more. 

“When I went to sea as a boy, at twelve,” James said, his words brittle and unpracticed, “I did it to hide the fact of– the facts of my birth. That my– that the man who fathered me was not married to my mother, that he was, in truth, married to someone else. He sent me away; his cousins had to find people to raise me. I grew up knowing that I would have to keep that secret, to conceal his mistakes.”

Reeling, Francis clung still to James’s sleeve, but kept his surprise shuttered as best he could. The life he’d once imagined James living as a younger man – handsome James, charming James, surely born to a wealthy, ambitious, proper family – melted like mist. “I didn’t know any of that,” Francis said, truthfully, “and I’m sorry for it. You deserved better. But James, why would you think this would change things – with the ice, with the ships, between you and I?” 

“Because–” James swallowed. “Because my captainship, it’s founded on fake promotions and commissions I never fully earned. My name – it was made up for my baptism. I have no family to bind to yours, Francis, no true glory to share with you – none that could not in a moment turn to infamy and disgrace. I am more ghost than man, I think.”

“No,” Francis insisted. “James, that’s not how I see you.” 

It was terrifying to watch James like this. Francis had seen him vulnerable before – wounded, speaking truths that hurt to hear – but this bone-deep hopelessness was eerie and unfamiliar. It didn’t match with anything of who James was. 

“What about your adventures in China, hmm? And Arabia?” Francis knew that James’s stories couldn’t be all lies – he’d seen the scars, felt the bullet’s bite and the cheetah’s claw-tracks beneath his fingers and his lips.

James nodded as if agreeing without words would make the truth go away. “Those are true enough. But – Francis, surely none of that matters for this, this – this power, the ships? If something is wrong, if Bridgens is right that our every word matters, then it could be anything: my name, my history– and after all, when I kissed you, look what happened to–”

Francis had stepped very close and settled his hand on James’s shoulder, and James’s words had dried up into a pained look that Francis might once have read as derision. He knew better now, or at least he hoped that he did. “I challenge any biographer to find fault with your captainship, James,” he said. “And I refuse to believe that you have caused this in any way.” 

Francis then wrapped his arms around James and gathered him close. “I would not have you any different,” Francis said quietly against James’s throat. “I know you are brave and kind and good and what you have told me changes none of those things.” It felt easier to give true and earned compliments when he could tuck them in next to James’s skin – alone though they were, out on the ice. 

In Francis’s embrace, James shivered all up and down. Francis pulled immediately away and saw that James looked decidedly blue and chilled.

“Come, we should not be out here on the pack,” Francis said, and added, his teasing voice rusty with disuse. “Back to your ship, Captain.” 

James smiled weakly and pressed the back of his hand to his eye in order to dry a tear that was beginning to turn to ice. Francis pulled down James’s hand, however, and tenderly brushed the dusting of snow off of James’s cheek himself. 

With this done, Francis began to draw back his hand, but James took it up as they began to walk once more. Francis felt his heart beat warmly in his chest at the gesture. 

As they passed around the side of a high ridge of frost together, Francis glanced back toward the looming shape of _Terror_ and found his eyes drawn down to the surface of the pack. There, his footsteps and James’s had pressed deep into the ice as though their boots were made of heated metal and not of leather, and spiderweb cracks trailed between the prints, showing a glimpse of darkness below: water that was alive and flowing, dark and deep. 

And yet, overhead, the clouds grew pale and heavy and threatened to pour snow back onto the cracks in the ice like a mother mending a plate broken by a careless child. Francis hurried his steps, and just as he and James stepped aboard _Erebus_ – still hand in hand – the heavens suddenly opened up behind them, raining down hail upon their backs.


	9. Nothing Short of Magic

**Chapter 9: Nothing Short of Magic**

_they tried to read between the lines  
and hoped to find what none could find  
a trace in all the whiteness there  
a sign that hope still lived somewhere_

– – –

**Henry Peglar – a few days later, at the beginning of March, 1848**

The ever-present ice and hail and thunder, which had not let up since Captains Crozier and Fitzjames had returned to _Erebus_ , battered against the reinforced walls of the ship loud enough to keep Henry Peglar awake at night. If anything, the storm had only grown more intense, but Henry would never complain – not when his own beloved John Bridgens was allowed to spend almost every free moment with him. They’d hardly had a second to themselves over the last three years, and now no one appeared to mind John leaving behind all his other tasks to tend to Henry.

Even Captain Fitzjames had given his blessing, John had said: a source of great gratitude and no little surprise to Henry. How odd it was to think of the captains knowing of his and John’s arrangement and not minding! It felt like a weight off Henry’s chest – through, of course, another weight had already replaced it, Henry thought, as he breathed carefully to avoid moving his ribs too much. But Henry had every hope he’d heal soon, and then he and John could be together, much more openly, for however long the voyage lasted. Henry tried to focus on that thought, and not the looming concerns about the ice, and their dwindling stores, and the grim worries of the men, which he’d heard increasing in volume and frequency in the last few months. There was too much fear. 

Still, it was difficult to be too afraid under Doctor MacDonald’s attentive care. The doctor was currently bustling around the sick-bay, making small-talk with Henry as he re-dressed his wounds and tested his healing ribs.

Just as Henry’s bandages had been re-tied, a series of knocks announced a visitor, and a warm, gruff voice called out, “Hullo, Alex.”

The doctor smiled. “Mr. Blanky, do come in – I’m just finishing up here with Mr. Peglar.” MacDonald turned to Henry, “You can put your shirt back on, lad, unless you need any help with that?”

Henry shook his head. He’d manage.

After he’d struggled himself back into his shirtsleeves and sweater, Henry saw that Mr. Blanky had come in and was speaking quietly with Doctor MacDonald. Henry turned away and fussed with his sleeves to give them a moment.

Eventually, the doctor nodded to Mr. Blanky and turned away toward his case of medical supplies. Mr. Blanky, however, came over to Henry’s sick-bed. “How are you doing, son?” Blanky asked, seating himself on a nearby crate.

“Healing well, thank you, sir,” Henry replied.

Blanky looked at him speculatively. “You had us worried there,” he said. “That was a nasty fall.”

Henry nodded. “But the worst of it healed fast, sir. I was mostly better by the time the storm started – the doctor tells me that the stress and noise of the thunder might be slowing down the improvement.”

“When the storm started?” Blanky asked. “That was ‘round about when the captains left for _Erebus_.”

“Yes, sir.” It was when Bridgens had told him, deeply relieved, that they wouldn’t be parted, for he wouldn’t yet be returning with Captain Fitzjames.

Blanky hummed, thoughtful. “Well, the captain asked me to pass on the message that we may yet be walkin’ out come spring, if the ice can’t be melted,” Blanky said. “Not that you need to do aught about that right now, mind.” 

Henry wondered what version of that message had been given to Doctor MacDonald, and how it differed from what Blanky was telling him now, but he said nothing, only lowered his head in obedient agreement.

“So just heal up, Mr. Peglar,” Blanky said. “You’re small enough that we can haul you in a sledge if there’s need, but all things considered, we’d rather not.”

This was said with a smile, so Henry tried not to worry.

“Aye, sir.”

Blanky placed a friendly hand on Henry’s ankle. “Rest. And take care – no more falling, you hear me?”

Henry smiled. “No more falling,” he agreed.

– – –

After the doctor had decreed Henry sufficiently healthy to be left alone in the sick-bay while he tended to other patients elsewhere on _Terror_ , Henry had curled up in his small berth once more and decided to struggle through some of his Greek.

John had begun teaching him Greek during their last months on land together, before the expedition set sail. Henry could now puzzle out a few words without John’s Greek dictionary, but not much more. 

When Henry had fallen from the maintop, John had fretted and worried, Henry knew, until Henry had awoken and quickly started demanding small tasks of John, if for little purpose other than to make John feel useful. Asking John to bring over the book of Greek poetry from _Erebus_ had been an excellent idea, Henry thought, but he’d forgotten to ask for the dictionary as well.

Without it, Henry could only scan the page and pick out the few words that he did know – a simple particle here and small fragments of connecting-words there, and perhaps the word for ‘beautiful,’ Henry thought.

Henry tried to remember what John had told him to do if he was reading without a dictionary. Perhaps reading aloud would help, like when Henry had been learning English, all those years ago on another ship with John?

“Hoi – hoi me… ippen… stopo..”

“ _Oi men ippéôn stróton, oi de pésdôn,_ ” John Bridgens’s strong voice interrupted Henry’s weak efforts. As always, John sounded rich and warm to Henry, the passage of poetry flowing from his memory like wine from a bottle.

Henry brightened. “John,” he rasped, “you’re here – will you read to me?”

John’s brows were furrowed in concern, but that had become something of a pattern for him these days, Henry feared. Nevertheless, John nodded, and folded himself into the small space of the berth left free by Henry’s bent knees.

“Shall I give you the Greek first?”

Henry nodded back. John knew what he liked – to hear the Greek first, and try to puzzle it out before John eventually showed him the pathway through the labyrinth.

“This is Sappho, the great poetess of the Greeks.” John said, some pleasure seeping into his voice as he began to speak of things he knew and loved. “And this is a precious thing, this poem. One of only three poems of hers that we have.”

“There used to be more poems?” Henry asked.

“Many more,” John said. “We only have this one because a Greek writer thought that it was so beautiful that the words had magic in them, so he copied them down in his writings about magic and ships and all the other things he loved. But there were once nine books, all full of Sappho’s poetry.”

“What happened to them?”

John explained, sorrow evident in his whole body, “They were lost.”

“Maybe they’ll be found, one day?”

John nodded, his lips set in a careful line. “Maybe so, Henry, – maybe so.”

“The Greek, then?”

John agreed, quiet and lovely, “Yes, Henry.”

Henry closed his eyes. It was easier to understand the words that way. In the darkness, John’s words came to him slowly, peacefully, like waves lapping against some gently sloping shore.

“ _Oi men ippéôn stróton, oi de pésdôn, oi de náôn phais’ epi gan mélainan émmenai kálliston, égô de kên’ óttô tis ératai – pánkhu d’ eúmares súneton póêsai pánti tout’a gar pólu perskéthoisa kállos anthrópôn Eléna ton ándra ton ariston kallípois’ eba ’s Troían pléoisa…_ ”

John’s voice drifted through the words beautifully, a ship at sea cutting smoothly through the surf. When John tilted his syllables into a deeper tone, Henry knew that the poem was coming to a close, and he opened his eyes to catch John’s mouth giving form to the last syllables.

After, John smiled down at him. “Did that please you, Henry?”

Henry hummed. “Always, John.”

“And can you tell me what you heard?”

Henry thought about the words that had flowed through his mind. “Horses? And a ship – a ship with black sails? The most beautiful ship, a ship someone loves…”

Those first lines had been hard for Henry, but the next were even more so. “I think… all of something?” Henry tried again. “Many of something? Something beautiful. And the best man, the strongest of men.”

Henry bowed his head, not wanting to see the look in John’s eyes while Henry butchered the poem. The last words, then, streamed once more though his mind – _Troían pléoisa_ – and Henry knew that much at least: “Troy – someone’s sailing to Troy.”

Henry looked up. John was smiling at him.

“Good, very good,” John said.

Henry curled around John’s legs like a ship’s cat. “Tell me what it means?”

John began flipping through the book to the end, where the printer had added the pages of English translations, but Henry stopped him. “No– John, tell me what it _means_ , not how someone else translated it.”

John laughed. “It won’t be as smooth, Henry, and it won’t rhyme.”

Henry grinned. “Good, that’s how I want it.”

John bowed his head. “As my love commands,” he said, voice trembling with mirth.

With his grin still firmly on his face, Henry nodded. “Go on, then.”

“It starts, _‘They say – some men do – that it is an army of cavalry’ –_ there’s your horses, Henry. _‘And other men say that it is a band of foot-soldiers. And others again say that it is a great fleet of ships, that’s the most beautiful thing on the black earth’_ – that’s ‘black earth,’ that phrase there, not your ‘black sails,’ but – _‘but I? I say that the most beautiful thing is what one loves.’_ ”

“That’s lovely.”

John smiled. “It’s a beautiful poem – that’s why that other Greek writer copied it down, and that’s why we still have it.”

“Which writer was that, John?”

“These words come to us from Lucian, who wrote about many things: fantastic voyages and magic and history and truth. Some of it is very silly and strange, but some of it is lovely.” John sounded wistful, stroking his fingers along the spine of the book that he still held, clasped in his hands. “Lucian tells us that Sappho wrote this poem for her love, a woman named Anaktoria, who had sailed away also.”

Sadness and joy raged in Henry’s chest, burning where his wound crossed over his heart. “Sappho loved another woman?” he asked, tentatively.

John nodded, “Sappho herself names her love: Anaktoria who is gone – _Anaktorías ou pareoísas_ – Anaktoria who is present no longer.”

Henry wanted very much to hold onto John and never let go.

After a moment, John shook himself and continued, “There’s more, you know. You were right about ‘sailing to Troy.’”

“Alright then,” Henry smiled gently. “Tell me.”

“The next verse goes _‘It’s a very simple thing to make this known to everyone: for Helen – the one who,’_ – I think it’s important to know that the next word really means ‘encircle, encompass, or surround’ – she’s the one who surrounds everyone, she outflanks them in the battle for who is the fairest. _‘For Helen, who outflanks all others in her loveliness, she left behind her husband, who was the best, and went sailing away to Troy.’_ ”

“Because she loved the prince of Troy?”

John looked terribly fond. “I see you remember your _Iliad._ ”

Henry snuggled deeper into the blankets, “The prince of Troy – he was what she loved.”

“You–” John began, and then looked nervously toward the sick-room door. It had been pulled fully closed. John turned back, and spoke quietly but very fiercely: “ _You_ are what I love, Henry.”

Henry grinned. “And you are what I love, John.” He brought John’s hand up to rest on his chest, forgetting until it was too late that the bandages remained there, as did the wound beneath them.

John frowned.

“I’m not so injured that I don’t want you to love me, John,” Henry said. “I don’t think I could ever not want you to make love to me, injured or not. I’d have to be dead–”

Too late, John pressed a warning finger to Henry’s lips. “Don’t say such things! Don’t, Henry, please, I can’t–”

Henry kissed John’s finger in apology, but when John’s words stopped, Henry saw that there were tears gleaming in his beautiful, dark eyes. Henry tried to sit up, but the pain returned, and he fell back with a gasp. John stroked soothing hands over Henry’s ribs, his brow rent with worry.

“I’m – fine.” Henry said.

“You’re not.” John replied.

“Lie down with me,” Henry insisted. “You’ll make me feel better if you do.”

John looked very skeptical, but did as he was told. They lay together in the small bed, John pressed close to Henry’s back, while Henry’s breathing evened out. Still eager for John, Henry shifted his hips back, seeking John’s warmth and the desire that he knew lay banked for now but ready to burst back into flame.

“Henry,” John admonished, his tone fond and a bit exasperated.

“Yes?” Henry did his best to make his voice pure innocence.

“I won’t let you hurt yourself, doing this.”

“Then take care of me,” Henry challenged. “I know you won’t hurt me.”

John sighed, but when he turned Henry carefully onto his back, his face seemed unbearably tender. “I couldn’t live with myself if I did,” John said, absently, tracing the shape of Henry’s bandages under his shirt.

Henry frowned, and pushed John’s hand lower. “You can’t hurt me, John. I know you.”

John allowed his fingers to be pressed where Henry wanted them. Henry sighed with happiness.

“You see?” Henry said, grinning, “I know you.”

John quirked one of his dark eyebrows, and Henry held himself back from laughing, knowing that his ribs wouldn’t thank him.

Just then, John’s hand moved with more clear intent, and Henry gasped, delighted.

“Please, John,” Henry said. And John did, and then it was all pleasure, and any pain left Henry entirely, leaving only John’s hand and John’s mouth curved into a soft smile, too kind to ever be called wicked, but capable of such wicked things.

– – –

After, when John was once again curled around Henry’s back, and stroking one of his big hands over Henry’s hip in a way that felt very warm and comforting but still sent little shivers of pleasure though Henry – shivers which he tried very hard to hide so that John wouldn’t worry – then, afterwards, John whispered something into Henry’s hair.

“What was that?” Henry murmured, quite close to sleep.

John said, just a bit louder, “The prince of Troy was very foolish.”

Henry hummed, “Why?”

“You remember this,” John’s voice sounded almost like it did when he was teaching, but not quite. “He sailed to Troy with Helen, and then many men died trying to capture Helen back.”

“I remember that – only, I don’t think it was foolish for the prince to want to be with the one he loved. Dangerous, maybe, but not foolish.”

“You think Helen should have stayed with her husband, then?” Henry could hear the way John’s lips curved up into a smile. If he’d had the energy, he would have rolled back to kiss the smile right off John’s lips.

Instead, Henry tucked himself closer into John’s shoulder. “I think Helen and her love should have sailed on forever and ever,” Henry declared. “Not to Troy, but out and away, out into the open sea.”

John appeared to muse on this. Eventually, he whispered again, his words pressed to the skin of Henry’s temple, “Maybe so, love, – maybe so.”


	10. Ships that Won’t Come to Crash on Our Bones

**Chapter 10: Ships that Won’t Come to Crash on Our Bones**

_at last the passage to them was shown  
through frozen seas to new lands unknown  
so with hearts undaunted and courage true  
they did what none on earth can do_

– – – 

**Tom Blanky – March of 1848**

Sitting in the Great Cabin, with his warm cup of tea cradled in his hands and the early morning sun crawling up the walls to light them gold, Tom Blanky thought he might possibly manage to be happy. Yes, it had been almost three years since he’d seen his family, but there were joys to be found even here. 

Blanky smiled across the table at Francis as they sat in companionable silence – at least until Fitzjames’s voice called out “Francis?” through the open door of the captain’s cabin. 

A few weeks previous, Francis had finally declared it absurd that he and Fitzjames should both sleep crammed into one of the small beds allotted to _Terror_ ’s captain and _Erebus_ ’s, and so he had permitted Mr. Weekes and Mr. Honey to be commissioned in the making of two larger beds, one for each ship, on either of which he and Fitzjames might both sleep comfortably. The carpenters were among the men left idle while the ships floated in their own small seas, while the ice slowly melted by the day; it was little hardship, Blanky thought, to employ them so. 

“In here,” Francis called back in the general direction of his own cabin. 

When Fitzjames appeared in the doorway, he was not entirely dressed for company. It was cold enough on _Terror_ that his dressing gown was firmly wrapped around his shoulders, but beneath, he wore only his hastily thrown-on trousers over his nightshirt – which was largely unbuttoned. His feet were bare, toes curling against the cold floor-boards. 

Seeing that Francis was not alone, Fitzjames seemed to startle, and he drew his dressing down more modestly over his chest. 

Blanky did make _some_ effort not to smile. “Morning,” he said in greeting. 

“Morning,” Fitzjames coughed, settling himself into a chair beside Francis. To Blanky’s eye, it looked as though Fitzjames moved less stiffly than he had a few months ago. When Fitzjames sat down, his dressing gown slipped, revealing the flat expanse of his chest, which was covered with an odd assortment of wounds that made Blanky raise an eyebrow. There were a few fresh bruises that looked suspiciously like bite-marks, but more surprising were the long, half-healed claw-scratches, revealed for a moment before Fitzjames covered them once more and shot a weak glare in Blanky’s direction. 

“Alright there?” Blanky teased, unconcerned about his superior officer’s glowering look. 

Fitzjames nodded curtly. 

“Please don’t torture my husband,” Francis complained through a soft grin – Blanky thought there might even be a note of pride in his voice. 

Fitzjames made a strangled sound.

“Feeling alright?” Blanky persisted. 

“Fine,” Fitzjames managed. 

“Your gift from the infamous cheetah?” Blanky asked, gesturing toward Fitzjames’s now-covered torso. 

“Yes?” Fitzjames said, his brow furrowing. 

Blanky crossed his arms. “Still healing, is it?”

“Is this going anywhere,” Fitzjames asked, “or are you just trying to steal poor Doctor MacDonald’s job out from under him?”

“Don’t think he’d thank you for that,” Francis added. 

“Alex’ll be fine,” Blanky said. “But no – I’d had a thought, is all. Francis, you told me your ribs felt better after right after Fitzjames started visitin’ you–”

“You said that?” Fitzjames interrupted. 

Francis went red. 

“–so I wondered if Fitzjames might be feelin’ any better himself, recently. Now that you two have been spendin’ rather more time together.” 

Both captains looked down at the table, not meeting Blanky’s eyes. Blanky cleared his throat. 

“The wounds had opened, before,” Fitzjames said, “but they’re healing back up now – rather quickly.”

“Since we know you can heal each other, then,” Blanky continued, “might do to see if you can heal someone else.” 

Fitzjames looked up and raised an eyebrow. “You refer to poor Mr. Peglar?” 

“Aye,” Blanky nodded. “Could be worth a try.”

“Well, I suppose we won’t have to track down our historical specialist,” Fitzjames joked with more than a little fondness. 

Blanky smiled. 

– – – 

Once Blanky had crammed into _Terror_ ’s over-crowded sickbay along with Francis, Fitzjames, Bridgens, Peglar, and a curious Doctor MacDonald, the debate over methods began. 

“Well,” MacDonald asked Francis, who had expressed some doubts when faced with an actual wounded patient, “what did you do for Captain Fitzjames?”

Francis maintained a very expressionless face as he replied, “I can’t be certain.” 

Blanky was impressed. 

Fitzjames broke in. “What if Francis started by simply putting his hands over Mr. Peglar’s injuries?”

“It certainly can’t hurt him any, if you’re gentle,” MacDonald agreed. 

Francis turned to Peglar, who was propped up on several pillows. “Would that be alright, Peglar?” 

Peglar nodded. “Yes, sir – and thank you.”

“No need to thank me, son,” Francis said. “I’d just be happy to see you well again. You’ve had us all worried.” Peglar ducked his head bashfully, and then winced a bit. Bridgens quickly reached out to take his hand, and Peglar squeezed it tightly as he shut his eyes against the pain. 

“Alright,” Blanky said.

Francis gingerly placed his hands on Peglar’s chest. 

Everyone in the room held their breath. 

Several long seconds passed. 

And nothing happened. 

“Now what?” Francis frowned. 

Blanky looked to Bridgens and he saw the man’s brows drawn low in concern. “Any ideas, Mr. Bridgens?” Blanky asked. 

Bridgens seemed pensive. “Perhaps – I know we are aboard _Terror_ , sir,” he said, with a nod to Francis, “but perhaps if Captain Fitzjames were to join his hands with yours?” 

“We can try,” Fitzjames offered. He reached out and placed his long fingers over Francis’s. As his palm settled on top, both captains jolted, and young Mr. Peglar gasped. 

“Henry?” Bridgens said, desperately leaning over their joined hands and looking as if he wished to push the captains out of the way, but didn’t quite dare. “Are you alright?”

Peglar was breathing heavily. 

“Henry?” Bridgens asked again, sounding almost frantic. 

But Peglar clutched his hand, and nodded, and coughed. “I’m alright – I’m alright, John,” he said. “That was–” a shudder “–like something out of a novel. Some lightning rushed through me.”

“Can you breathe alright?” Bridgens asked, his voice almost painful with concern. 

“Yes – I can, now,” Peglar said. He began to sit up, carefully. 

With all the magic finished, Doctor MacDonald gracefully slipped back into his command of the sick-room, edging around Francis to help Peglar resettle himself in the bed. “May I?” he asked his patient. Peglar gingerly lifted up his shirt and allowed MacDonald to adjust his bandages, loosening them until they fell down to show his ribs. 

In shock, Blanky realized that the massive abrasions that had marred the young man’s pale skin were healing before all their eyes. Places where Peglar’s skin had been bruised blue by his tumble from the top-beam swirled and moved like water and then washed themselves into healthy pink skin once again. Peglar’s breathing quickened as a small scraping noise echoed in the shocked-quiet room – a rib fitting itself back into place. He let out a deep breath. 

“Well,” Henry Peglar said, and laughed without any sign he had ever been wounded at all. 

– – – 

The glow of their success lasted only as long as it took for Captain Fitzjames to ready himself and his entourage of miscellaneous Erebites – as well as Mr. Peglar, leaning only very slightly on Mr. Bridgens’s arm – to begin their disembarkation of _Terror_. 

Blanky had turned away when Fitzjames was only a few steps out onto the ice himself, but before Blanky had done more than set foot on the ladder that would lead him back belowdecks, he heard a loud shout of surprise and horror. Turning around, Blanky saw a crowd of Terrors leaning over the gunwale, peering down at a figure that lay crumpled on the ice. 

“He cannot go down to the pack,” Ned Little said, with numb misery in his voice. 

“What?” Blanky asked, trying to discern what had happened. 

“When he stepped onto the ice, sir,” Nelly the caulker’s mate explained, “–Peglar, that is – well, he sort of… fell. Just dropped like a stone. When they pulled him back up, he was bleedin’ again.”

In an instant, Blanky swung himself down to the surface of the pack and began helping with the efforts to pull Peglar back up onto _Terror_. The young man was limp in Bridgens’s arms, but as Captain Fitzjames and Mr. Cowie lifted him up the ladder, he began to stir. By the time they had him safely lying on the upper deck, Peglar was blinking his eyes open. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he reassured the gathered crew. 

“You’re evidently not fine, lad,” Blanky said. 

Peglar shook his head. “But I _am,_ ” he insisted. “I feel alright now – I don’t know what happened.”

Blanky looked him over. The foretop captain certainly looked alert and aware, but a line of blood dripped down from his forehead, where his head-wound had caused much worry; just this morning, it had been entirely healed up. 

Catching Blanky’s gaze, Peglar lifted a hand to his temple. His fingertips came away red, but still he shook his head in disagreement. “It’s healed, I think,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt.” 

There were noises of amazement from the assembled Terrors and Erebites. 

Bridgens, kneeling beside Peglar, gently examined the wound, and nodded in relieved agreement. “It’s already closed again.”

– – –

Once the crowds had dispersed and Mr. Peglar had been brought back down to sick-bay – despite his continued protests that he was fine – a whispered conversation began amongst the officers still up on deck. 

“It seems as though he’ll be fine as long as he stays on the ship,” Ned Little offered tentatively. 

“If we can’t get the ice to melt, though, that’ll pose more than a few problems for Mr. Peglar,” Fitzjames said. “I don’t suppose he can walk out if this is what happens when he tries to leave _Terror_.” 

Bridgens, who had been sent away from the sick-room with Peglar’s passionate reassurances of his excellent health and the doctor’s solemn promise that Bridgens would be alerted if anything changed, spoke up at that. “Pardon me,” he said, “but if Mr. Peglar cannot leave the ship, then I would not walk out without him. If you’ll permit me, Captain Crozier, Captain Fitzjames – I will stay with him. Just he and I if we must, for you should not waste men on us if there is no hope, but I cannot be parted from him.”

As Bridgens spoke, _Terror_ ’s timbers shifted and moaned below him as if in agreement – or perhaps something more sinister. Blanky shivered. 

“I don’t think it’ll come to that,” Francis said. “We have every reason to think that the ice _will_ melt if we continue on as we have.” 

Bridgens swallowed, his brow creased in worry. 

“I’m afraid – I’m afraid that this may not be the case,” Bridgens said. “I had read something that I hadn’t thought to be relevant, but now I’m not so sure.”

There was a chilly silence. 

At last, Fitzjames spoke. “What have you uncovered, Bridgens?” 

“Well, the Romans – or the Roman writer Cicero at least – would have thought all of this impossible, sir, which is why I dismissed it initially.” 

Fitzjames nodded. 

Bridgens continued, “Cicero writes of omens and divination and ritual, and he said that these things were foolish, superstitious. He leaves no room for magic, but still he says that even if omens could exist, they would not be as we expect them to be. The words do not matter, he says; what we think of as rituals – auspices, marriage vows – are only the ghosts of these things, and it is the act that matters.” 

“What would be the ‘act,’ then, in this instance?” Fitzjames asked. “What do you suppose the Romans would have us do?” 

Francis muttered under his breath, “What have the Romans ever done for us?” but fell silent at a stern look from his husband. 

Bridgens, seemingly buoyed up by Fitzjames’s confidence, spoke firmly and intently: “You would have to devote yourselves completely to these ships – a sacrifice. Henry – Mr. Peglar – is now bound to this ship and may not leave, for that is as far as your domain extends. If you relinquish control over the world outside, and turn away from the ice, I think we may have a hope of escaping from this place at last, though I do not know that such a bond can be reversed.” 

“You must lead us in this,” Fitzjames insisted, “Give us the words and we will try to give them meaning.” 

Reluctantly, a series of Latin phrases spilled from Bridgens’s mouth. The foreign sounds were a mystery to Blanky, and perhaps not entirely clear to Francis, who stumbled through his repetitions like a schoolboy. Fitzjames’s echo of the Latin was clearer, though his brow was furrowed. 

At the end of the line, Fitzjames paused, and looked to Francis, and stepped close to him, and touched his lips with a clever finger as he shaped the words. At just this moment there was a monstrous sound above them, a crashing of wood, though the pale sky was clear of ice and hail and whistling wind and all other signs of storm. 

The yard of _Terror_ ’s mainmast, which had been damaged on the dreadful day when the ice had risen up against them and broken Blanky’s leg – and which spar, it was thought, had finally given up the ghost when Mr. Peglar had fallen – was creaking and groaning as if in a high wind. Before Blanky’s wondering eyes, the very wood itself began to knit back together, like a wound healing.

Fitzjames opened his mouth, perhaps as if to speak again – or perhaps for some other purpose, as close as he stood to Francis, and as near as his lips were, now, to Francis’s mouth. 

“Wait–” Bridgens interrupted, and all eyes turned his way. “I think we ought to wait.” 

Fitzjames asked, very seriously, “What is it, Bridgens? What’s wrong?” 

“Do you realize what this would mean?” Bridgens’s voice was heavy with grief. “This may free us from the ice, but we may not be able to return home. We may sail on and on and never be able to set foot on land again.” 

Blanky frowned, “A great price to pay, Mr. Bridgens.” 

Bridgens nodded solemnly. 

“If the ice will not release us unless we take this step, then I think we have little choice,” Fitzjames said. “It may be a decision between an uncertain life lived chained here to _Terror_ and _Erebus_ , or a certain death without them.” 

Francis reached for Fitzjames’s hand, ignoring Blanky’s raised eyebrow. “I, at least, would prefer such an uncertain life,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting up as he watched Fitzjames with wary hope. 

Fitzjames, when he looked to Francis, seemed to glow gently. It almost hurt to interrupt. 

“We should put this to the men,” Blanky said. 

“We _will_ put it to the men,” Francis said, firmly. “And we will make what efforts we can to ensure that this is the right course. Then we will speak the last vows only when we have agreed that we are fully prepared to accept the consequences, and only when we can be sure that the ice will not melt of its own accord this year.”

– – –

**Two months later – the beginning of May, 1848**

The first of May dawned bright and golden – a good omen, perhaps. 

The ice had, in fact, not broken apart any further, and remained intact where it bound the ships within their deep pools, as firm around the few feet of open ocean as it had been against the hulls themselves only a few months previous, though the natural movement of the pack seemed to have drawn the ships closer together once again, back within shouting-distance. 

All the preparations for what Bridgens suggested had been made, instead: all the crew had been informed and consulted, Mr. Goodsir had been roped into performing some strange natural divination using tinned livers in order to determine the best date for their departure, and Fitzjames had left the ships for an agonizing week’s trip to deposit a number of messages along the shoreline of King William’s Land, from Cape Felix all the way south past Victory Point. When he’d returned, all safe and sound, he had been greeted eagerly by an anxious Francis – whom Blanky had been trying to reassure for the previous seven days. The next several weeks were quickly used up with readying the ships to sail once more, and before anyone truly knew it, the chilly Arctic spring had arrived in full. 

Both captains had spent the previous night on _Erebus_ , leaving Commander Little as acting captain on _Terror_. To Blanky’s surprise, Lieutenant Le Vesconte had requested permission to help staff _Terror_ – while there had certainly been some mingling between the two crews during their years on the ice, today in particular the lines between Erebites and Terrors had blurred beyond recognition: on the promise of a grand speech from Fitzjames, Lieutenant Hodgson had happily agreed to travel to _Erebus_ , and so Le Vesconte had swanned over to terrorize Ned Little, where he’d been instantly beset by an almost mischievous-looking Jopson. 

Blanky had taken one look at the three of them, and quietly motioned to Lieutenant Irving to go ahead and begin rallying the men. 

When at last the crew had been assembled on the upper deck, and the sails had been adjusted for a voyage, and the signal flags had been raised to tell _Erebus_ that _Terror_ was ready – and Commander Little had been dutifully mussed and straightened and mussed again by Le Vesconte and Tom Jopson – Blanky stationed himself at the gunwale, not far from where Mr. Bridgens and Mr. Peglar stood, leaning together against the mast, with Bridgens’s arms wrapped warmly around his love. From his position, Blanky had a clear view of their sister ship, rocking gently on the water and yet hemmed in by walls of ice. 

Blanky rested a hand on the winter-ravaged wood of the ship he’d come to know so well. Francis’s ship, who’d been wrecked in the Arctic before and resurrected, who’d slipped through the towering bergs of the Antarctic with minimal injury. She’d carried them far, and been a good home to them – it wouldn’t be a hardship to have her as a home for a while longer yet, Blanky thought. 

A slight shiver ran through the gunwale under Blanky’s fingers. He looked out toward _Erebus_ , and saw nothing from so great a distance, but there was a tension in the air. The ice held firm on the horizon, Blanky thought, but a power coiled in _Terror_ as though her engines were prepared to break through the pack itself. 

A stronger shiver wracked the ship, and shuddered into Blanky’s arm. He blinked. 

Over on _Erebus_ , the words must have been said at last. 

Motion followed – the long-lost sensation of a ship under sail. _Terror_ in her tiny sea. Blanky braced himself for the impact. 

From over on _Erebus_ , Blanky could hear Captain Fitzjames leading his men in three raucous cheers. With a sudden shudder and jolt, _Terror_ crashed into the icy rim of her own small ocean and seemed to break through. Blanky glanced down from where he stood at the bow of the ship. 

With more than a little surprise, Blanky realized that the ice had not, in fact, opened up. 

Instead, thin fingers of ice seemed to be growing up the sides of the ship, covering the dark wood in shimmering tracks of white, as though icicles could suddenly grow not only downward from the rigging but upward from the very pack itself. The ice shifted beneath the ship like gentle waves. Against all odds, _Terror_ sailed once more. 

Looking down at the shape of the ice itself, Blanky realized with awe that he could see paths through the pack, not through open water, but through firm ice. They glittered like a dusting of fresh white snow on the edges of his vision – and apparently he was not alone, for Le Vesconte let out a glad shout of “Leads! Due west!” He had scrambled up into _Terror_ ’s rigging, followed closely behind by Ned Little. Once Little had joined him on the yardarm, Le Vesconte reached out and pulled the man into an energetic embrace, almost sending the both of them tumbling before Little caught ahold of a steady rope.

Blanky found the telescope that Tom Hartnell had left with him before he had returned to _Erebus_ as her new ice-master, and saw that indeed, the bright sea-ways trailed off to the west. A white line marked on the surface of the white map that was the ice. Blanky then peered toward _Erebus_ , which was now sailing, improbably, over the surface of the pack, as encrusted with crystalline patterns as _Terror_. At her prow, Fitzjames stood tall, his grin bright enough for Blanky to see even at so great a distance. Through the spyglass, Blanky watched Fitzjames let out another cheer and spin around to Francis, who stood a step behind him, smiling almost as warmly – at least, until Fitzjames kissed him with abandon, practically leaping into his arms. Francis steadied him with an arm around his ribs and a hand pressed to the small of his back, and then kissed him with equal fervor.

Blanky discreetly turned the lens of his scope away from the captains and gazed out instead at the thin traceries that lay locked in ice ahead of them, leading them ever farther and farther west. 

The Northwest Passage, at last. 

Blanky laughed, full of joy.


	11. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_they say these captains still remain  
upon the seas, to their ships chained,  
lost in the waves, so no tongue can tell  
where these ghostly ships and their men do dwell_

– traditional lyrics of the late 1850s naval ballad “The Ghost Ships” 

Editorial note: The exact date of this musical composition is difficult to determine, though we can be fairly certain that it was written after 1857, when proof of Sir John Franklin’s date of death – early in the expedition, on June 11th, 1847 – was uncovered. Nevertheless, rumors of Franklin’s early death and other details recorded here (the supposed ships-marriage of Captains Crozier and Fitzjames, the ghostly ships, &c.) began mysteriously appearing in British publications as early as 1853. 

– – – 

**From _The Spectral Sailor_ (McCorristine 2016, pg. 39) a popular non-fiction volume on the history of naval ghost stories:**

Among the most famous of all ghost ships, the Franklin expedition’s HMS _Erebus_ and HMS _Terror_ hold a special place within such 19th century naval traditions. These two ships, famously lost in Arctic seas as they sought the Northwest Passage, have never been found, but rumored sightings of them in the years following their disappearance inspired countless legends and ghost stories. Archaeological excavations across the Canadian Arctic have long sought the remnants of this ill fated voyage, and, though many searchers claimed to have found proof of the expedition’s fate, almost no real evidence has been uncovered. 

Sir James Clark Ross, a fellow arctic explorer and dear friend of _Terror_ ’s captain Francis Crozier, embarked upon one of the first search missions for the Franklin expedition, and he obtained one of the few reliable narratives still believed to be authentic by scholars today. It was Ross who famously spoke to Silna and Panatoq, two members of a Netsilik group who claimed that the two ships’ crews did not perish in the Arctic but, in fact, miraculously sailed out to the west after being trapped in the ice for three years. This tale could not be corroborated, however, as neither Silna nor Panatoq were ever available to be interviewed again by later investigators.

– – – 

**From _Unravelling the Mystery of Franklin’s Ghost Ships: Inuit Testimony_ (Woodman 1998, pg. 163) a detailed analysis of Inuit oral histories concerning the Franklin expedition:**

The following excerpt comes from a transcript mentioned, but not included, in Sir John Rae’s _Journeys through the Northwest Passage_ (1856). Like other accounts printed in that volume, this conversation occurred during the 1848-1851 search and rescue expedition led by polar explorer Sir James Clark Ross (1800-1882), whose voyages looking for the Franklin expedition coincided with extensive overland search efforts by the celebrated discoverer of the Northwest Passage, Sir John Rae (1813–1893).

According to Rae, the following conversation occurred during the autumn of 1850, when Rae had joined forces with Sir James Clark Ross. The two men were assisted by Thomas Abernethy, an experienced Arctic sailor under Ross’s command who sometimes acted as a translator in similar interviews. 

“In the ice on the north-western side of King William Land,” Rae wrote, “we encountered a family of Netsilik who told us that they were from Neitch-il-lee [Neitchille], and that they had seen tall ships in this region when hunting in the summers two and three years previous.” This would place the sightings of the ships in 1847 and 1848. Rae continues, “The two Inuit who agreed to speak with us were a woman by the name Sil-na [Silna] and a man whom she introduced as her father, Pa-na-took [Panatoq] who spoke with his hands while his daughter translated.” 

Rae then preserves this description of an interview between the Inuk woman, Silna (Sil-na); her father, Panatoq (Pa-na-took); Thomas Abernethy (T.A.), and James Clark Ross (J.C.R.): 

_J.C.R. (with T.A. transl.) asked if Sil-na & Pa-na-took had seen the ships themselves. Sil-na said that they had seen the ships often. J.C.R. asked if they had ever gone into the ships, or spoken to the sailors. Sil-na shook her head. J.C.R. asked what had happened to the ships, & T.A. added in his transl. also where the ships went. Sil-na said one day, in winter of the 2nd cold year [1847] the ships had almost been crushed by ice, but in spring of the year the seal returned [1848] there was a thaw. _

_T.A. asked if the thaw had allowed the ships to sail away. Sil-na looked to Pa-na-took who spoke with his hands – showed a movement to the west. Sil-na explained the ice had melted first around the ships. But the pack ice further out was firm enough for [illegible word beginning with T] to walk on it. The ships were trapped. Then, one day, Pa-na-took heard a loud crashing noise. At this time, J.C.R. gasped. Sil-na explained ships had not been destroyed, but turned as white as ice & sailed over the pack like it was open water. _

_J.C.R. himself [Rae likely means “without Abernethy translating”] asked about the men on the ships, calling them his friends. Sil-na set her hand on his arm. She gave him an ivory carving of two ships, joined together by a [bridge?]. She told him not to worry about his friends for they were in the care of [illegible] & they would help others. J.C.R. himself thanked her & T.A. expressed their gratitude to Pa-na-took. They took their leave._

Though more events are described in Rae’s journal, Rae’s handwritten notes become confusing at this point. After the departure of Ross and Abernethy from the narrative, Rae seems to mention an “enormous white bear,” that came to sit beside Panatoq and appeared to converse with him. Rae’s description of the creature – he writes that Silna called it a “spirit” – is perhaps more metaphorical than literal: an unusual departure from his typical pragmatism as an explorer and investigator. Furthermore, Rae asserts that this figure “looked into my eyes and told me not to stay, for none could safely follow after me, not through the passage.” Most scholars have concluded that the creature described must simply be another Netsilik individual. It is unclear if Ross and Abernethy also interacted with this person themselves. 

– – – 

**From the[digital catalogue](https://collections.rmg.co.uk/collections/objects/2113.html) of the National Maritime Museum, Royal Museums Greenwich **

Object ID: AAA181145

Description: A relic of Sir John Franklin’s last expedition 1845–1848. A leather wallet containing letters and notes. It was found floating in the Arctic sea on the west side of King William Island, mysteriously protected from the elements, on 25 May 1851, by the Ross & Rae Search Expedition 1848-1851. Though the script scratched into the leather indicates that the wallet belonged to Henry Peter Peglar (1811–?) of HMS ‘Terror,’ the handwriting of many of the pages inside is more likely to be that of Peglar’s friend, John Bridgens, Subordinate Officer’s Steward, HMS ‘Erebus,’ who also signed his name on the corner of one page. The papers in the wallet are: 1) An unknown type of certificate with Henry Peglar’s and John Bridgens’s signatures, now largely illegible; Ross’s discovery notes indicate little of the content of what the certificate once commemorated. 2/3) Hand-written narrative of an apparently fictional ritual, running round the sides of two pieces of paper. 4) An address on a small piece of paper. 5) Slip of paper with the words ‘Sentimental Song for John’ written on it. 6/7) Two sheets with a narrative written backwards, part of it relating to the capture of an albatross. 8) ‘Lines writ… party wot happened at first light.’ 9) Lines beginning ‘Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone.’ 10) Narrative of an incident with the ice. 11/12) Translation of Latin Ode 1.3 by Horace (65 BCE – 8 BCE) in Peglar’s writing, dated 21 April 1848, and with the Latin phrase “animae dimidium meae” written in a different hand, above the English translation: “the other half of my soul.”

Date made: before 1845

Materials: leather; paper

Measurements: 155 x 175 mm

People: [Peglar, Henry Peter](https://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus:text:1999.02.0025:book=1:poem=3). [Bridgens, John](https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/better_half). 

Collection: [Franklin Relics](https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2016/03/20/magazine/franklin-expedition.html). [Polar Equipment and Relics](https://lithub.com/like-twitter-but-cold-on-the-literary-culture-of-arctic-expeditions/%E2%80%9D).

Events: [Arctic Exploration: Franklin’s Last Expedition, 1845-1848](https://castinglotspod.tumblr.com/post/189878520353/10-ice-part-i-the-franklin-expedition-casting%E2%80%9D). [Arctic Exploration: Franklin Search Expedition, Ross, 1848–1851](https://www.listennotes.com/podcasts/grave-history/5-the-franklin-expedition-5wTYQ-H97Sb).

Vessels: _Enterprise_ (1848)

Gallery location: Not on display [[find out why](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1XIyripgpjrJjcCUA90vBwW6XHiSwjlm1/view?usp=sharing%E2%80%9D)]

– – – 

**From a post from the blog[ _Apparitions of the Arctic_](https://radiojamming.tumblr.com/post/186728229872/got-too-lazy-to-sync-it-up-with-any-effort-beyond%E2%80%9D), titled “Fragments of Franklin: New Evidence or an Elaborate Hoax?” dated Tuesday, May 22, 2018.**

Ever since a young researcher’s recent discovery of several fragments of paper, recovered from King William’s Land and then lost within the archives of the Scott Polar Research Institute, those who study the Franklin expedition have been debating the meaning (and even authenticity) of these relics. 

[Image ID: A cell-phone photo of three scraps of paper, all of them weathered around the edges. Across the first fragment reads the following text: “Dear Will, I wish you to know that I am [safe?] & [sound?] and that you and Elizabeth should not worry for me…” Across the second fragment: “…I have full [faith?] that whatever becomes of us, my [husband?] will care for us…” Across the third fragment: “…we are about to attempt a [drastic measure?] that will hopefully return us safely to the open sea, but may not bring us back home, so I wish to assure you that I have been [loved?].” /end ID.] 

Several commentators have speculated that the illegible word that looks somewhat like “husband” refers to the well-known 1850s sailors’ song about a ships-marriage between Captains Francis R.M. Crozier and James Fitzjames. Admittedly, the handwriting of these fragments does look eerily like that of Fitzjames, as we can see when comparing the fragment to the infamous Victory Point Note. 

[Image ID: A scan of the Victory Point Note, originally signed by “Gm. Gore, Lieut.” Around the margins of the preprinted form is written a message in James Fitzjames’s handwriting: “25th April 1848 – HMShips Terror and Erebus, having been beset since 12th Sept 1846, hope soon to depart due west from their present position 5 leagues NNW of this. This paper has been replaced in the location where it had been deposited by the late Commander Gore in May June 1847. Sir John Franklin died on the 11th of June 1847 and the total loss by deaths in the Expedition has been 5 officers and 7 men. [signed] F.R.M. Crozier Captain & Senior Offr, with his [dear?] [illegible word] [signed] James Fitzjames Captain HMS Erebus.” /end ID.] 

Despite the similarities, we cannot rule out the possibility that the SPRI fragment is a well-crafted forgery. Further examination of the paper and ink may help us determine if the document is truly evidence of the Franklin expedition’s fate, but we must be cautious of applying later legends and myths onto the true history of this famous Arctic tragedy. 

– – – 

**From “Dead or Only Gone? A Recent Arctic Discovery from the Archives” (Blenkhorn 2019), an article published in the volume _News at the Ends of the Earth: Shipboard Newspapers and Newspaper Coverage of Arctic Disaster_ (ed. Blum and Craciun 2018):**

These two letters were found in the archives of the _Morning Herald_. Neither of these two missives, written by a Ms. Hannah Blanky, were ever printed – as, indeed, they seem to take the form of private correspondence, rather than public “Letters to the Editor,” – and, as such, both epistles have only recently been transcribed. 

22nd of September, 1853

Ms. Hannah Blanky  
21 Hope Street, Liverpool

Mr. Robert Knox, Editor  
Offices of the Morning Herald  
43 King’s Street, London

Dear Mr. Knox, 

My mother, Mrs. Esther Blanky, wrote to you last year on the sixth of February, to assure you of our high hopes for the swift return of my father, Mr. Thomas Blanky, and the other members of Sir John Franklin’s expedition to discover the Northwest Passage. At that time, my mother enclosed the text of a letter she had received from my father, in which he had written, “should we not be at home in the fall of 1848, or early in the spring of 1849, you may anticipate that we have made the passage, or likely to do so; and if so, it may be from five to six years – it might be into the seventh – ere we return.” In the same letter mentioned above, my father urged us not to become disheartened regarding the length of his absence, but rather to “look forward with hope” that Providence would restore him safely to our arms. 

Though we have endeavored to maintain this hope, I have begun to fear for the state of my family’s affairs now that more than eight years have passed, and I write seeking your assistance in my father’s absence. If it could perhaps be arranged, I wish to meet with you to discuss whether it might be possible to publish advertisements with your paper in order to help support my family in this difficult time. 

Sincerely,  
Hannah Blanky

The second letter is dated “the 5th of August, 1858,” and records a different address for Ms. Hannah Blanky and her family, which is thought to be the location of the store operated by the Blanky family in the years leading up to 1858: 

Mrs. Esther Blanky & Daughters  
No. 2, William St. & New North Rd.  
Islington, Middlesex

Mr. Robert Knox, Editor  
Offices of the Morning Herald  
43 King’s Street, London

Dear Mr. Knox,

I hope this letter finds you very well indeed. I want to thank you once again for forwarding all the notes from well-wishers and patrons over the years, and for helping mama and me to arrange for our store’s advertisements in your newspaper. 

This may sound terribly strange, but I must inform you that, unfortunately, we will no longer be able to receive mail after the end of the summer. Since there is to be no forwarding address for us anymore, I humbly request a great favor: that you retain any letters for my family that the newspaper offices might receive, against some uncertain future date when we may return to retrieve them. 

I cannot tell you precisely why our circumstances have changed, but I can say truthfully that my family has unexpectedly had something of great value returned to us, but we must swiftly leave London so as not to lose [illegible: perhaps “him”] again. Do not worry, for my mother and my sister and I are all quite well and looking forward to a bright and happy future. 

Sincerely,  
Hannah Blanky

– – – 

**From “Zombies and Ghosts and (Demon) Bears, Oh My! Representing the Franklin Ships in Popular Media,” (Cowie & Coakley 2020) a _New Yorker_ article about modern depictions of the Franklin expedition:**

A tragic example of man’s hubris? The origin story of the most famous guardians of sailors? 

Representations of the Franklin Expedition in popular media today tend to follow one of two distinct paths, either striving for a realistic and tragic interpretation of the disappearance of the two ships – which usually involves the deaths of most, if not all, of Franklin’s men – or choosing to depict the crews aboard ghostly ships, appearing from out of the mists to rescue ships and sailors in times of direst need before disappearing once more. 

The writers of the second movie in the _Pirates of the Caribbean_ franchise, _Dead Man’s Chest_ , have acknowledged that they were, in part, inspired by this ghostly myth when creating the characters of Davy Jones and his crew of barnacle encrusted sailors – though it should be noted that the Franklin expedition had not yet happened during the time period in which the _Pirates_ movies are set. 

A (moderately) more accurate recent example of a popular culture depiction of the Franklin expedition is the 2018 AMC show _The Terror_ based on Dan Simmons’s book of the same name. For the most part, _The Terror_ takes a more realistic approach, thanks in part to its masterfully researched script, written by Dave Kajganich and shepherded to the screen by Kajganich and fellow show-runner Soo Hugh. By focusing on the crew’s struggle for survival when their ships become trapped in the ice, Kajganich and Hugh create a high-tension atmosphere of desperation, similar to the book from which _The Terror_ was adapted, Dan Simmons’s 700-page epic of the same name. In contrast to Simmons’s bittersweet ending, in which the only survivor of the expedition defeats a demon bear that decimated his crew and elects to live out the rest of his life with the Netsilik people, Kajganich and Hugh instead draw upon historical accounts of Victorian-era “ships-marriages” to suggest one way by which a larger group of Franklin’s remaining crew may have escaped a gruesome fate. As such, the show’s last episode ends on a note of tentative hope, as their leading characters, Captains Crozier and Fitzjames (portrayed with great subtlety and tenderness by Jared Harris and Tobias Menzies, respectively) wed themselves to each other and their respective ships, thereby abandoning the possibility of returning home, but ultimately saving their men from the ice and becoming symbols of salvation for doomed sailors the world over. 

Stories like the marriage of Crozier and Fitzjames – accounts of which date back to the early 1850s – show a keen interest in queer narratives among sailors of the period, as well as among audiences today. Though often fervently criticized by some scholars as ahistorical, evidence of such romantic bonds – if not their supposed magical powers – continues to surface. 

“It’s because we want to believe in a happy ending for these men,” said historian Alice Blenkhorn in a recent interview. “We hope that they found love for each other, even in truly dire circumstances. We choose to have faith that their love meant something.”


	12. Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised, all of my historical, source, and title notes!

**History and Source Notes**

The song lyrics that appear at the beginning of each chapter are a variation upon the traditional “Lady Franklin’s Lament,” numerous versions of which you can find by digging around online; some versions do in fact date back to the 1850s. I’ve very much re-written the song to match this story, and if you want to hear this version in full, you might want to find yourself curious about why the National Maritime Museum’s Object #AAA181145 is not on display in the gallery…. (*wink, wink*) 

The initial idea for a ships-marriage derived, in part, from the context of the Captain Cook expedition and its eventual leadership by Captain John Gore (c. 1730–1790), whose bizarre elevation to commanding the expedition after Cook’s death (and the cannibalism of his body by some eminently reasonable native Hawaiians) came onto my radar on the anniversary of Captain Cook’s death in February 2020. The real John Gore was not a great person – the definition of violent, destructive colonialism, much like Cook himself. I’ve largely stolen his name – and that of his co-captain, James King (1750-1784) – for my own purposes, and discarded all the rest. Francis Crozier’s reference, in this fic, to serving with John Gore’s son and his grandson Graham Gore is entirely true – the real Crozier was in his early twenties at the time, and Graham was a preteen. 

The nonsense about admiralty orders prescribing that, in the event of Sir John Franklin’s death, Crozier and Fitzjames should switch ships, is also historically accurate, and it’s commented on by David C. Woodman in [a spectacular passage](https://annecoulmanross.tumblr.com/post/612143862167781376/earnestscribblr-a-curious-fact-is-that-the%E2%80%9D) from _Unravelling the Franklin Mystery: Inuit Testimony_ (1991).

Classical references form the not-so-subtle backbone of this fic – I’m a classicist, so I do hope I’ve done justice to the Greco-Roman history and mythology that I’ve pilfered, but I’ve also purposefully changed some major things, so here’s the reality behind the significant alterations needed to create this alternate universe: 

The terms _hieros gamos_ and _hierogamia_ are accurate ancient Greek verbiage, though they largely have more divine meanings in real ancient Greek contexts, referring most often to marriages between the gods and goddesses. Bridgens’s array of _hierogamia_ citations in ancient literature in the first chapter are essentially all fictional, though all are based on ideas from Greek myth (the famous union between Achilles and Patroclus, celebrated in Plato and later idealized – and cosplayed – by Alexander the Great and his lover Hephaestion), Greek ethnography (Herodotus’s very real obsession with ancient Egyptian religion, kingship, and ritual), and Roman appropriation of the Greek world (the Roman emperor Hadrian’s passion for both Greek culture and for his young Greek lover Antinous, who drowned in the Nile. Hadrian’s attempts to deify Antinous were so ubiquitous, in fact, that my friends and I have played a game in Greek and Roman museum collections across the world: it’s called “Spot the boyfriend,” because you can reliably assume that most museums with a classical collection will have at least one statue of Antinous!) 

More about classical allusions after some Victorian history notes on chapters 4 & 6.

In chapter 4, the text of the stilted “Solemnization of Matrimonie” marriage vows comes almost directly from the 1559 version of the Book of Common Prayer. I did not make up any of the worst bits. The “satisfyeing mens’ carnall lustes and appetytes,” is a real thing and I cannot be blamed for it. 

In chapter 6, Francis’s account of being separated from James Clark Ross while commanding _Terror_ in the Antarctic is largely historically accurate by virtue of its vagueness: I’ve had several discussions about it [here](https://annecoulmanross.tumblr.com/post/611623510722412544/fitzchocos-captain-commander-fitz-james-we-had%E2%80%9D), [here](https://annecoulmanross.tumblr.com/post/612339674093076480/links-with-the-past-the-author-destroyed-her%E2%80%9D), and [here](https://annecoulmanross.tumblr.com/post/612395350446227456/thank-you-for-your-reply-mentioned-it-because-you%E2%80%9D). The basic details that Francis tells Fitzjames – apart from the marriage idea – are generally true. The ships-marriage component, however, is entirely fictional. 

The Sappho poem that Bridgens and Peglar read and translate together in chapter 9 is indexed as [Sappho 16](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1M0gaCVNK21z9AV3AxjSC6boDzCtt-egJ/view?usp=sharing%E2%80%9D) by Anne Carson – aka probably the best known modern translator of Sappho’s poetry. This fragment would not have been available to the real Bridgens or Peglar, since it wasn’t discovered until the beginning of the twentieth century, preserved on a tiny scrap of papyrus in the garbage dump at the Egyptian town of Oxyrhynchus. I’ve created a fictional manuscript tradition whereby this poem was quoted in the work of the later Greek writer Lucian of Samosata (c.125 CE – c.180 CE), as Bridgens explained, inspired by the true survival history of [Sappho 31](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1UiSZHvOYVDXZ4pTBJvX2_6YcoDWn6mzS/view?usp=sharing%E2%80%9D), another very famous poem that was known to readers of this period thanks to an ancient treatise titled _On the Sublime_ by Pseudo-Longinus and also because of a Latin translation by the poet Gaius Valerius Catullus (c.84 BCE – c.54 BCE). Sappho 31 would be one of the “three” poems that Bridgens told Peglar were known to exist in the 1840s; the third poem, [Sappho 1](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1e0if3K5DbkMBP-BpGv8Rt3Nu75jUtjqM/view?usp=sharing%E2%80%9D) or the “Ode to Aphrodite,” similarly survived thanks to a manuscript written by a later author, Dionysius of Halicarnassus.

Bridgens’s practical readings on omens at the end of chapter 7, and the utilization of this research in chapters 8 and 10, are meant to be from a fictionalized version of the treatise _On Divination_ by Marcus Tullius Cicero (106-43 BCE). In particular, Bridgens is referencing a specific section from the second volume of Cicero’s work (2.33[71]), where Cicero wrote etenim, ut sint auspicia, quae nulla sunt, haec certe, quibus utimur… simulacra sunt auspiciorum, auspicia nullo modo, or “If omens were real – which they aren’t – then certainly, the omens on which we rely would not truly be omens but only the ghosts of omens.” (Translation mine.) All the rest is fictional beyond recognition.

Okay, end of the classical allusions. 

Several major changes have been made to the later historical record – after 1845 – because of the divergence of historical events; most of these changes appear in the Epilogue. 

All of the sources mentioned in the “Editorial notes” and in the Epilogue are fictional, though based on extant books and articles. “Atwood 1982” was inspired by [Margaret Atwood](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1Ghx9yDUXloTC32T4i6zALeJ3R6lCDTic/view?usp=sharing%E2%80%9D)’s 1995 collection _Strange Things: The Malevolent North in Canadian Literature._ “Ross 2020” comes from the 2002 article, “The Type and Number of Expeditions in the Franklin Search 1847-1859,” by [W. Gillies Ross](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1nLCK8cAQyfqZq6jd_YhipzYou0CxCjL3/view?usp=sharing%E2%80%9D). “McCorristine 2016” has its roots in the scholarship of Shane McCorristine, both the [2014 article](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1znTQZng-Ny9tr9OrUIV73l7l9KQ4DHMb/view?usp=sharing%E2%80%9D), “The Spectral Presence of the Franklin Expedition in Contemporary Fiction,” and the later [open source monograph](https://www.uclpress.co.uk/products/107752/) _The Spectral Arctic: A History of Dreams and Ghosts in Polar Exploration_ (2018). “Woodman 1998” or _Unravelling the Mystery of Franklin’s Ghost Ships: Inuit Testimony_ is only a slight fictionalization of David C. Woodman’s _Unravelling the Franklin Mystery: Inuit Testimony_ (1991), which furthermore provided the name “Panatoq” or Pa-na-took for Silna’s father. You already know who inspired the _Apparitions of the Arctic_ blog post, but if you don’t, I’m afraid I can’t enlighten you on that one. “Blenkhorn 2019” is an entirely fictional article by a fictional author whose name is based on an alternative last name used by Blanky’s family, but the general Blanky content is inspired by this article on [Thomas Blanky of Whitby](https://nycroblog.com/2020/07/14/thomas-blanky-arctic-seafarer1/?fbclid=IwAR3TxOQYUTCPeIhXoxFO10U-x9-E7FZ3541rFPE4tZLoNpoRcNfmICMXNSY%E2%80%9D) as well as the stellar research work of @[thomasblanky](https://thomasblanky.tumblr.com/) (more detail below!) The volume in which the fictional Hannah Blanky article appears, however, (“Blum and Craciun 2018”) is a mashup of [Hester Blum](https://drive.google.com/file/d/19MIVbrHl1OnuiCHw07h0XFe3KCj4_VQI/view?usp=sharing%E2%80%9D)’s _The News at the Ends of the Earth: The Print Culture of Polar Exploration_ (2019) and [Adriana Craciun](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1LCnOUQn0wIQD_YIS4s7H50Ba6FDF_Tym/view?usp=sharing%E2%80%9D)’s _Writing Arctic Disaster: Authorship and Exploration_ (2016). “Cowie & Coakley 2020” is purely fictional. (Or is it? Fun fact: _Erebus_ ’s John Cowie is a relative of mine on my mother’s side.) 

Though Sir James Clark Ross was indeed born in 1800, historically he died in 1862, not 1882. I gave him another 20 years of life because I wanted to. In this universe, his wife Ann(e) Coulman Ross (1817-1857, tragically) actually lived to the great old age of 85 and saw the new century, passing away surrounded by her children in 1902. 

John Rae (1813–1893), unfortunately, was never knighted in real life. His (entirely accurate) reports of cannibalism among the men of the Franklin expedition led Franklin’s widow Lady Jane to conduct a smear campaign against him and he has remained on the fringes of the historical mania surrounding the Franklin Expedition ever since. In this universe, where no evidence of cannibalism was left for Rae to find, Rae managed to more successfully assert his valid claim to having discovered the Northwest Passage, and was knighted for it.

Thomas Abernethy (1803-1860) [has been proposed](https://annecoulmanross.tumblr.com/post/619671595094507520/the-terror-theory%E2%80%9D) by @[hegodamask](https://hegodamask.tumblr.com/) as the man credited as “translator,” who appears alongside Sir James Clark Ross in the show, which is an identification I love, so I’ve given him that role here. 

Most of the details about the Blanky family are, to my knowledge, historically accurate. The quotes in Hannah Blanky’s first missive derive from a letter written by Thomas Blanky, dated July 12th 1845, and sent home from near Disko Bay. This text, transmitted by Blanky’s wife Esther, did in fact run in the _Morning Herald_ in 1852. The text of (and further details about) this letter were reprinted in Garth Walpole’s [2017 monograph](https://books.google.com/books?id=J4b4DQAAQBAJ&pg=PA9&lpg=PA9&dq%E2%80%9D) _Relics of the Franklin Expedition: Discovering Artifacts from the Doomed Arctic Voyage of 1845_ , pg. 9. 

Robert Knox was indeed the editor of the _Herald_ from 1846 until 1858, though the address of his office is fictional, unlike the real addresses given for the Blanky family. Sadly, Mrs. Blanky’s business at No. 2 William St. did in fact close in 1858, and she took out a subscription to pay her family’s bills, to which several other Franklin Expedition families contributed, including the relatives of _Erebus_ ’s Lt. Fairholme, as well as Sir James Clark Ross and Lady Jane Franklin. In this universe, of course, no such subscription was necessary. 

The vast majority of this research behind the character of Blanky in this story, and particularly the details about his family, come from the indefatigable work of @[thomasblanky](https://thomasblanky.tumblr.com/), though any mistakes or mischaracterizations are wholly my own. 

**Title Notes**

This story’s title, “To Become Legends,” comes, appropriately enough, from the Squalloscope song “Legends.” Each of the chapters in this story also has a title corresponding to each of the Squalloscope songs assigned to the ten episodes of _The Terror_ in [this fantastic post](https://catilinas.tumblr.com/post/615056061725032448/a-squalloscope-song-for-every-episode-of-the%E2%80%9D) by the brilliant @[endofvanity](https://endofvanity.tumblr.com/) and the infamous @[catilinas](https://catilinas.tumblr.com/). If you haven’t listened to Squalloscope, I can’t recommend their music enough. Here’s [a convenient link](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6UjSdycyi17jqpvhZtp0FK?si=fx8u8zU5SdynmD8gdYRWaA%E2%80%9D) to a playlist of all of the Squalloscope songs that contributed lyrics to titles for this fic, intermixed with other music I listened to while writing this!


End file.
